


I'll Try Anything Once

by sirachamuchacha



Series: The Land of Milk and Honey [2]
Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Zombie Apocalypse, Angst, Drug Addiction, M/M, Minor Character Death, Recreational Drug Use, Set in the future, Smut, and of course:music, fluff... eventually
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-05
Updated: 2017-11-15
Packaged: 2018-11-09 17:46:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 116,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11109669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirachamuchacha/pseuds/sirachamuchacha
Summary: (Sequel to The Land of Milk and Honey)Rick and Negan go on to lead unusual lives of their own within the five years they're apart. When they meet again, they come to realize that even after all this time and all they've seen, they've never truly left one another.





	1. Preface

**Author's Note:**

> The title of this work was taken from The Strokes song 'I'll Try Anything Once'.
> 
> Songs mentioned in this chapter include:  
> 'It's Too Late' by Carole King
> 
> Happy reading, y'all! :)

Rick gets home after a long and silent road trip with his mother and trudges upstairs to his room with heavy feet, feeling beat and bruised though all he had to endure was his Mother’s endless pressing and a barrage of songs on the radio that reminded him too much of Negan.

Looking at his room now is a task that’s so confusing. He's not sure what emotion it is that floods him. It feels like nostalgia, but nowhere near as sweet and all the while saddening.

Growing up here, these four walls were just a place for him to sleep or be sentenced to whenever he had gotten himself into trouble- which wasn't all that often; Rick never liked to dissapoint.

Then he got a little older, and it was a place to study and do his homework, maybe read a book when he had the time. It was never anything too sentimental, despite Rick being the kind of person who held too many things to sentiment.

That being said, it was easy to leave. He went away to college to make a few memories over there, but mostly to get an education, to make his family and his home town proud, to be able to live an easier life in the future.

But of course those weren’t his reasons, they were everyone else's. Still Rick abided by them like they were law and he hardly came back home. Only for major holidays like Christmas and New Years.

And every time he came back, that room was still the same old room.

Then came the Spring semester of his sophomore year, where everything changed from black and white to technicolor. In that short period of time, he realized the world was like a kaleidoscope, and with no one to rein him in, he was finally able to press his eye right up against the lens, seeing everything that lay offer right before him.

And when he came back home after that semester, this time with Negan, everything in his house was different, because _he_ was different. Now he wanted everything to mean something, he wanted to feel something honest, and when he saw his room lying dusty and clinical- like an attic (Hell, even an attic had more character than Rick’s room)- it didn’t sit well with him.

Now, he walks into his room and sees the way sprinkles of himself before and after Negan mingle together- from all the photos and awards he’d gathered in his high school days, to the giant wad of chewed gum still stuck on the drab wall, to the record player that still resides in the same place it had last visit.

Seeing these parts of his life and how they’ve concluded and have now come to affect him is puzzling all on its own, but what really bewilders him is the thought that there will be more, that he will constantly grow and he’ll never know when it's happening until it has already happened… and still, maybe not even then.

“Ricky!” His mother calls from downstairs, tearing him from his elixir of thoughts, “Come get all your stuff out of the car!”

Rick goes, happy to haul all of his belongings back into his room in multiple trips if it means a distraction from his racing mind.

But the distraction doesn’t last for long.

During his unpacking, he comes across a box, as ordinary as all the other cardboard boxes that surround him, but when he opens it up he sees a couple of things that form a lump in his throat, the first being Negan’s Nirvana t-shirt.

He can’t help the small whimper that slips from his throat as he takes the shirt in his hands, holding the soft and worn cotton up to his nose, trying to revel in the scent of the man he had shared so much with. He finds it smells mostly like him, he had worn the shirt so much. But if he really tries, he swears he smells something like leather and warm cologne, something that’s not him.

He lets himself shed a few tears, but nothing more, and then tosses the shirt onto his bed for later.

Then he averts his attention to the other thing Negan had left him.

It’s a Carole King record, the same one that he’s sure lies in his Mother’s collection.

His brows furrow, slightly confused as to why Negan had given this to him, after all there was no way he had slipped it in there by accident.

When he turns to look at the backside of the record, he finds the answer sprawled out in silver sharpie.

 _‘Please listen’_ is all it says, with an arrow pointed to a song in the track list titled _‘It’s Too Late’_.

Suddenly Rick remembers Negan in his fit of manic laughter, singing to him over the phone, and his stomach drops.

But still he gets up to put the record on, dropping the needle on the track Negan directed him to listen to.

He stands silent and attentive, hovering over the record, watching each revolution it makes, zoning out from the rest of the world and settling into the music.


	2. Rick's First Year

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The beginning of this fic will deal with the years Negan and Rick spend apart before they reunite. If you're confused or have any questions about that, feel free to ask me. :)
> 
> Songs mentioned in this chapter include:  
> 'I Love You More Than You'll Ever Know' by Donny Hathaway  
> 'Hit 'Em Up' by Tupac Shakur  
> 'The Less I Know The Better' and 'Mind Mischief' by Tame Impala
> 
> I hope you all enjoy!

_If I ever leave you, baby, you can say I told you so_

_And If I ever hurt you, you know I hurt myself as well_

_Is that anyone for a man to carry on?_

_Do you think I want my loved one gone?_

_Said I love you more than you'll ever know..._

There's a knock on Rick's door and then an immediate barging in.

“Still with this damn song??” Rosita asks exasperatedly when she hears the familiar tune. “Jesus, Rick, get a hold of yourself! It's been two months, for Christ’s sake!”

Rick's lying in his bed, cocooned in the sanctuary of his comforter, greasy hair and oily skin tarnishing the once pure bed sheets he's now soiled with the bane of all his grief.

“Leave me alone, Rosita.” He mutters, not equipped with the energy to yell or truly voice just how annoyed he is.

Ever since he got home, all everyone ever tries to do is milk him for answers about what went wrong with Negan, why he’s not going to school anymore, why he hasn't gotten a job yet- it's an endless assault that he does not want to face, and honestly, he doesn't think he should have to.

Why should he bare the grimy underbelly of his life to people just because they’d like to know? It's _his_ fucking life, goddammit, and if the people around him want something juicy to spice up their everyday life, they can go read a book or watch TV or something.

Rick just wants to be left alone, he just wants to be able to peacefully sink into his own sorrows and enjoy his pity party of one.

Frankly, that's what he's been doing anyway, despite his more than frequent interventions from family members.

These past two months at home, he's seen nothing but these four walls- and occasionally the four walls of the restroom down the hall

He would hardly be leaving his bed if it weren't for nature's dutiful calls or his mother threatening to kick him out of the house if he didn't eat something.

Everyday he wakes up from a restless night's sleep, having tossed and turned from the withdrawals of a firm man that used to be well within his grasp every night, and he does nothing but listen to records, day in and day out.

He’ll listen to some of the records that Negan had in his own collection, and he’ll reminisce about all the times he shared with the man, or he’ll listen to the records in his mother's collection that he's never heard of and try to forget about the pain that floods every part of his body.

He doesn't know why it hurts so bad, having your heart broken, why it almost feels like a physical ailment.

Sometimes he can hardly breathe right, can barely see two feet in front of him. The pain is so dizzying… and it just won't let up. He can never cry it all out, can never push it to the back of his brain.

“I’m not gonna leave you alone!” Rosita persists firmly, her voice loud and frustrated, “You've been alone for too long already, you can't be alone anymore!”

Rick rolls his eyes and let's out a large sigh. _Here it goes,_ he thinks, _another failed attempt of someone trying to heal him._

He watches as Rosita stomps over to the record player, carelessly throwing the needle off of the vinyl, and suddenly a surge of heated energy rips through his veins and he gets up from his bed.

“What the _hell_ do you think you're doing?!” He yells, snatching the record from her hands. He's surprised to feel her grip has gone from firm to lax.

When Rick notices her incredulous expression directed towards him, mostly at what he's wearing, his anger dissipates, fading into confusion.

He looks down at his clothes, then back up at Rosita.

“Look at you!” Rosita says, she's laughing but it's in disbelief, her eyes filled with pity, “Look at what you're wearing- is that, is that his shirt?”

Rick gulps, tugging anxiously at the Nirvana t-shirt that hangs baggily off his now malnourished frame.

“Yeah it is,” he says quietly, not meeting her eyes.

Rosita nods, jaw clenching thoughtfully. There's a thick silence and then she breathes in deeply, “Go shower. Get dressed. Then meet me at Abuelita’s, we’re going out for a drive.”

“But-”

She points a dangerously sharp finger at him, dark eyes firm as they bore into his “Don't fucking ‘but’ me, Ricky.”

Then she's out the door and Rick listens to her footsteps as she ventures down the hall, then down the stairs, then out the front door.

God, he really doesn't want to do this.

He doesn't wanna shower, doesn't wanna go driving with Rosita… doesn't wanna take off Negan's shirt..

But he figures the girls wrath when she finds she's been stood up will be worse than whatever could come of her plans, so he grabs some clean clothes and heads to the bathroom, hoping Rosita means well with whatever she has in mind.

-

Rick’s been avoiding looking at himself in the mirror.

When he takes the first shower he’s taken in weeks, under Rosita’s command, he pays the mirrors no mind, until the hot steam the shower water emits fogs up all the reflective surfaces, censoring his skin from his own eyes.

He steps underneath the gentle assault of the warm water, and immediately his muscles go lax, though he hadn’t even realized he’d been tense in the first place. Tense has just been his default setting for the last few months it seems.

A sigh escapes him as he lets all of the aches that lie under his skin be washed away. It’s a while before he can actually grabs a bar of soap, lathering himself in the deep, masculine scent before he lets it all rinse away and leave his skin tight and clean.

It feels nice to be clean, he thinks, it feels like he can wash away all of the grimy feelings he’s been drowning in.

But then he goes to grab his shampoo and whatever contentedness he had managed to find runs right down the shower drain.

Some part of him had been expecting to reach out and find Negan’s cheap coconut scented shampoo, lying right next to the matching conditioner that Rick had wound up using more often than not. He liked the smell of it better than his own.

He feels so fucking childish, getting upset over having to use his own shampoo- its just fucking shampoo, he tries to reason with himself, is he really gonna let Negan get to him through something as mediocre as shampoo?- but he gets a whiff of it and he starts crying because it doesn’t smell like coconuts. It smells like.. fucking ‘Ocean Breeze’ or whatever the fuck it says on the label. It just doesn’t smell like Negan’s shampoo, and that hurts. It makes him want to catch the next bus to Austin and just go back to Negan, hug him one more time, kiss him ten more times.

He catches his breath after a minute, turns up the heat of that water until it nearly scalds him, until it paints his ivory skin a pleading red, and he washes his hair with a shampoo that isn’t Negan’s.

Once he’s out of the shower and has dried himself off to the best of his abilities, he dresses himself in just a plain gray t-shirt (white t-shirts remind him too much of Negan) and a less torn up pair of black Levi’s. He slips on his trusty pair of cowboy boots, and heads out the door.

He jumps back a little bit when he sees Rosita parked outside his fence, a fed up scowl dressing her face as she sits impatiently in the driver’s side of her old Lincoln Town Car, rap music blaring loudly with the bass on high .

“It’s about time!” she says saucily over the music, but when she looks Rick up and down her eyes fill with that same pity they had regarded him with a little over an hour ago in his room. _“_ _Vaminos, pendejo!_ _”_ she says, revving her engine for show, and she tears her eyes away, looking straight ahead and through the windshield.

Rick gets in the car and buckles up, sitting rather stiffly, which Rosita picks up on quickly.

“Relax, man,” she says once she faces him, “I’m a badass driver. I’m Chicana, cars are in my blood. My uncle, the truckdriver one- you know him, taught me how to drive when I was ten and I was driving his eighteen wheeler by the time I was thirteen, so chill out.”

“That’s…nice,” Rick says, unsure of what to say, mostly because the musics so loud he can’t hear half of what she said, and because small talk has never been his strong suit.

With that, they take off, cruising down the mostly empty highways of their town. Things are relatively silent, save for the sound of a heavy-voiced male rapping,

_Grab your glocks when you see Tupac_

_Call the cops when you see Tupac_

_Who shot me, but your punks didn’t finish_

_Now you bout to feel the wrath of a menace_

Rosita’s bopping her head to the beat, mouthing the words lightly and Rick’s not gonna lie, he’s a little taken aback.

“What’s this?” Rick yells.

Rosita spares him a glance, sees the nearly horrified look on his face and busts out laughing. “What does it sound like? It’s music!”

Rick makes a face, “It’s… different.”

Rosita only laughs harder, shaking her head when she releases a deep, satisfied sigh, “You are so white. I can’t believe we grew up together.”

Rick shrugs and Rosita pauses her music.

“Don’t tell me Negan made you one of those pretentious dicks who only listens to the shit that’s older than their parents and strictly buys only 120g vinyl pressings. He looked like the type... and Abuelita told me he was a musician... _and_ he lives in Austin, so.”

Rick only winces a little bit at the mention of Negan’s name, but the defense that strikes him helps him overlook it.

“They don’t make good music anymore!” He argues, “What else is there to listen to? Meghan Trainor? One Direction? I don’t want that kind of music going into my ears!”

“There’s good music!” Rosita counters, “You just gotta look for it! It may not be like music from the sixties or seventies or whatever, but it’s relevant to the times and it’s good. It’s inventive.. Do you know how hard it must be to come up with your own sound when it’s already been done? Cut these new kids some slack.”

“I don’t know,” Rick sighs, giving up the fight easily, “Maybe it’s just not for me.”

Rosita scoffs, “You really let that Negan brainwash you into only listening to old shit. Damn shame. I could teach you a thing or two about good music, you know.”

“Could you please not say his name?” Rick urges.

Rosita raises an eyebrow at his tone, but seems to heed his command anyways, “Geez, what’d that dude do to you?”

“It’s none of your business,” Rick says harshly, fidgeting in his seat.

“I can make it my business,” she offers. When Rick doesn’t say anything, she breathes in deeply, hands gripping the wheel a little tighter, “You know what Abraham did to me? After three fucking years together?”

Rick doesn’t say anything, just meets her eyes to show he’s listening, just as the road that zips out long and vacant in from of them is.

“He fell for my best friend Sasha,” she says, adding, “I know, I know- just fell for her, right? Most people think ‘Well, at least he didn’t fuck her, at least he let me know.’ I would’ve rather he fucked her and never told me. Just gotten it out of his system and then come back to me.. But he told me he thinks he’s in love with her, and that he realized he never loved me. But he still wanted to be friends.” She clears her throat, and even though Rick can only see part of her face, the pain etched into her skin is undeniably present. Seeing her like that awakens his own aching. “How can I be friends with someone who I loved but didn’t love me back anymore? I still don’t know. They’re the two most important people in my life- next to Abuelita, I couldn’t just lose them. So I forgave the both of them, just to be civil. They’re nice enough to not parade it around in my face, thank God, but sometimes I just wish they would.. So I could move on.”

Rick shakes his head, disbelieving, “I didn’t know you and Abraham had been together for that long.”

“Didn’t feel that long,” she says. She seems to consider her next question for a while before she asks it, “How long were you and Negan together?”

“Not long.” It feels like a knife to the gut saying that, because it’s true, and it makes the connection they shared together seem so insignificant, “Maybe three months… Not even.. I don't know. It- it felt like forever, like we'd been together forever,” he scrubs his hand over his growing beard, letting the feeling of his own scratchy hairs against his palm keep him steady.

“How’d you meet him?”

“He was my roommate. After Louie.”

Rosita’s eyebrows shoot to her hairline, “You were wifed up with that dude? Holy shit, no wonder you’re fucked up. Does your mom know you lived with him all this time?”

He shakes his head, sighing, “No, but I’m gonna have to tell her soon since she never stops hounding me.”

After a few more minutes on the road, Rosita turns onto a dirt road, following the path until she thinks they’ve driven far enough.

Rick, puzzled, looks at their surroundings: nothing but the dry brush of the South Texas middle of nowhere.

“What are we doing here?” Rick asks, as he watches Rosita unbuckle and reach for something in her boot.

She’s wearing a sly smirk that only serves to puzzle Rick even further, but when she sees what’s in her hands, all his questions are answered.

“You were driving with _that_ in your fucking shoe?!” Rick guffaws, “Are you crazy?? What if we’d gotten pulled over?!”

Rosita only rolls her eyes, and grabs the lighter that rests easily in her cupholder. She hands Rick one of the messily wrapped joints, and despite all his yelling, he takes it easily, never having been happier to see some green.

“Impossible,” Rosita provides, with her spliff hanging out the corner of her mouth, “I told you, Rick, I’m a badass driver.” She courteously lights Rick up first, then herself, “Besides, haven’t you ever done something stupid in your life? It’s refreshing, you should try it.”

Rick ignores her until after he’s taken a couple of hits and his body feels lighter and less problematic.

“I’ve done some stupid shit in Austin,” he finally answers sometimes later, “Smoked joints while casually walking down the street, got into a bar fight once, ran from the cops.” He tenses a little at that last one.

Rosita laughs, loud and disbelieving, “Yeah, sure.”

Rick joins in on her laughter though there’s really nothing very funny. Her laughter just sounds like it was meant to seep out of her and into him, and who is he to stop the laws of the earth?

“I’m serious!” He presses, voice hitching with the fits of his giggles, and then he starts filling Rosita in on all the stories. The weed makes it hurt a lot less to bring it all up, to say Negan’s name. It almost makes him feel disconnected from those stories, like he’s the narrator rather than the main character.

“Wow,” Rosita says, heavily amused once Rick has wrapped up his storytelling, “Sounds like you two had a lot of fun together.”

“We did.”

“What do you miss the most?”

At that question, Rick feels himself slowing drifting back down to earth. He watches the smoke snake out of the burning end of his shortened joint. For a while he watches the ember grow closer to his fingers, and then he speaks up. “We used to do this a lot,” Rick says, gesturing to the joints, “Just smoke and talk.” His tongue feels like it’s growing larger with every word he speaks, trying its absolute best to choke him, but he keeps on, “We’d listen to music.. and eat.. a lot.” A small smile sneaks up on him as he recalls the many instances.

He blinks a few times, and with every quick flutter of blackness, he sees Negan behind his eyelids. The man’s smiling back at him. “I just loved spending time with him.”

Rosita nods, almost reverently, but it’s more a gesture of empathy. “Well,” she says, “now you’re gonna have to get used to spending time with me.” Rick laughs and Rosita follows. “I’m gonna have to get used to spending time with _you_ ,” she tacks on, “Shit, once you started high school I thought I had finally got you off of my back. Looks like I was wrong.”

“Me? Off _your_ back?” Rick says, both amused and incredulous, “You may be the coolest chick in town now, but I know the real you.. The five year old you that would cry like a baby whenever I would have to walk back home at the end of the day.”

“You had cool toys, bitch.”

Rick’s head falls back with a cackle, “Yeah, sure. Alright.”

After their joints have shrunken too short to be useful, and have been discarded into the unknown brush outside of the car, the two of them just sit in the car, listening to whatever music is playing out of the car speakers- Rick’s not sure what it is, but he feels like he can hear every single sound that makes up the music. He feels like he might even be able to hear every musician who made that song breathing alongside their playing if he really listens. Or shit maybe that’s just his own breathing…

Fuck, what did Rosita give him?

“You ever heard of Tame Impala?” The girl asks suddenly, breaking him out of his stupor.

Rick shakes his head no. He’s still shaking his head even after she acknowledges his answer. He swears he can feel his brain moving.

Rosita grabs her phone and fiddles around with it for a second. “They sound great as fuck when you’re high.. Check it out.”

Rick watches as she presses a button, and immediately a new song plays. His jaw drops, because of the power of technology and because the song she’s playing has a cool bass intro.

“Is that like bluetooth or somethin’?” He asks, bewildered. Negan was all radio and vinyl and CDs, and he was never much into music himself before Negan. He’s a little behind, to say the least.

Rosita honks out a laugh that sounds like it hurts, but she doesn’t answer him.

Rick forgets he even asked a question not even a second later as he becomes encompassed by the music.

_Someone said they left together, I ran out the door to get her._

_She was holding hands with Trevor, not the greatest feeling ever_

_Said pull yourself together, you should try to luck with Heather_

_And I heard they slept together, Oh the less I know the better_

Rick could make out every word, and he’d never heard anything like it in a song. It was juvenile and it was dramatic but also kind of cheesy. Still, it was cool. 

In the simplest ways, it reminded him of Lori, and how she cheated on him. It was all very relatable in that sense, but as he heard another part, it reminded him so much of Negan that it hurt.

_I was doing fine without you, til I saw your face, now I can't erase_

_Giving in to all his bullshit, is this what you want? Is this who you are?_

It really had all changed once he laid eyes on Negan, hadn’t it? For the better or for the worse, these days he can’t tell, because now it seems like being yourself costs you a lot more fear. It's a lot easier to give into bullshit, Rick decides, but he likes the truth better, in the end. 

Rick’s not ready when the song ends. He never wanted it to end.

“You got any more songs like that?” He asks Rosita once everything is silent again.

Rosita smirks, soaking in the gratifying knowledge that Rick liked a song she showed him. “I got more Tame Impala songs, not all of them are like that, though.”

She puts on another song, and Rick’s muddled brain can’t find any words other than ‘really cool’ to describe the main riff that carries the song, and his mouth goes slack with how cool the drums sound, too.

Then the same cloudy voice comes in, and Rick listens intently. Immediately he’s smitten- with the words and the instrumental. It's like the poetry he likes- simple and hard hitting- but without the compromise of a hard instrumental. Most of the time he’s had to pick between the two whenever he listened to music, but with this song, he feels like he's found the best of both worlds.

 _Feels like my life is ready to blow_ _  
_

_Me and my love we'll take it slow_ _  
_

_I hope she knows that I'll love her long_ _  
_

_I just don't know where the hell I belong_ _  
_

_How optimism led me astray_

_Two hundred things I took the wrong way_

_But I saw her love gauge running low_

_I tried to fill but it overflowed_

-

It’s late when Rick gets home. He can’t be bothered to know the actual time, however.

The front door is unlocked despite the ungodly hour, but Rick’s too preoccupied with the sudden comeback his appetite has made, and he doesn’t think about it at all as he goes to raid his kitchen.

In the dark, he scavenges for food. The first thing he can get his hands on is a cookie jar full to the brim with what he makes out to be Oreos.

Satisfied, he grabs a gallon of milk from the fridge and settles onto the free counter space next to the kitchen sink. With his feet dangling a few inches off the ground, he feels like he’s treading in water, but his brain disregards that thought quickly as he stuffs a few oreos in his mouth.

Once his mouth becomes too sweet, he drinks straight from the milk jug.

Normally, Rick’s pretty revolted by drinking milk by itself, but right now he just can’t stop drinking it. He chugs maybe half the gallon, and vaguely wonders what if the jug was an udder and he was a baby cow? He feels like a baby cow. His neighbors have some baby cows, it's weird. They treat those animals like family. Actually, maybe it’s kind of sweet-

He’s torn from his thoughts when suddenly the kitchen light flicks on and his father’s firm voice calls out his name.

“Rick?”

Rick jumps up, falling off the counter.

“Uh… yeah?” He says, once he's back on his feet. His eyes are wide with both fear and surprise as he looks at his father, who looks really short for some reason. Shit, how tall is his Dad?

His father studies his form, eyes narrowing in examination until he finally says, voice growing loud with anger, “Rick.. Are you high?!”

Rick fish mouths for a second as his Dad suddenly grows taller, stretching out like he’s looking in a circus mirror. He holds back a laugh, “Yeah… A lot.”

His father huffs out a sigh, his hands moving to rest sternly on his hips, “Do you know what time it is, young man? You’ve had me and your mother worried sick!”

“Uh… No.”

He’s being stared at some more, for a long time, and then there’s another sigh- but this one sounds different. “What are you doing to yourself, Rick? ... What are you doing?”

“Dad, I just smoked weed. I’m not- It’s not-”

“What do you want from life, Rick?? You’re not going to school, you don’t have a job! You stay in your room and you rot all day, and the one day you do go out you come home at 2am smelling like Tommy Chong! You say you’re taking a break- a break from what? What happened to you?... What do you _want_ to happen to you?”

By the time his Dad finishes talking, Rick feels nearly sober. “I don’t know.”

His father purses his lips. “You had it all figured out, Rick. It was all laid out in front of you and you just let it all go down the drain because-” he gives an exasperated laugh, “because Negan dumped you.”

The name is a stab to the chest. “ _Don’t,_ ” Rick says through his teeth, “Don’t say his name… and-and he didn’t dump me, I dumped him.”

“You dumped the kid?”

Rick nods.

His father scoffs, “You made the choice! So move on, Ricky. You’re gonna give up your dreams for him? For someone you only spent a couple of months with?”

“It wasn’t my dream, Dad.” he utters quietly.

“What?”

Rick sighs, and all of his discarded anger comes rushing back into his blood as he yells, “I said it _wasn’t my dream!”_

His father stares at him with eyes so bewildered, and Rick doesn’t know if it’s because of his confession or because of his tone. He’s never raised his voice with his parents. He hardly even used his voice when it came to his parents.

“I should’ve never let you go to Austin,” Rick’s father murmurs, shaking his head. He moves to pace around the kitchen floor and Rick just watches his anxious gait. “I should’ve never let you go to that city!” His voice is now a frustrated roar, and Rick winces when it meets his ears.

As he stares at his father’s glowing red face, scrunched up in anger, he thinks maybe his father is right, he shouldn’t have let him go to Austin: the city of a pretty man who works at a record store and plays guitar in a small apartment.

“What the hell is goin’ on here?” Comes Rick’s mother, her voice demanding silence and attention.

Everything is quiet and still until Rick grabs the cookie jar.

“Nothing,” he says as he goes to make his way back up to his room, “I was just going to bed.”

He feels his mother’s eyes burning holes of deep concern into his back the entire time he’s walking up the stairs.

As he’s lying in his bed, cradling the cookie jar to his chest and binging Oreo after Oreo, he thinks about Negan.

About Austin.

About Glenn and Maggie and Beth and Daryl and Dwight: all the friends he’s made there and now left behind.

He thinks about everything that’s happened to him in that city that his parents don’t know about.

He knows he’ll have to tell them soon, but talking about it right now feels like hell. Even after a few months the wound is still fresh.

He wonders if it’s still that way for Negan, if it still hurts more than words could describe.

He wonders what Negan is doing right now...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading! Next chapter will be in Negan's POV.  
> Feedback and constructive criticism are more than welcome! :)


	3. Negan's First Year

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs mentioned in this chapter include:  
> '(You Make Me Feel Like a) Natural Woman' by Carole King  
> 'Baby' by Donnie and Joe Emerson  
> 'You Talk Way Too Much' by The Strokes

It’s raining hard in Austin, has been for the past week. It always seems to be at the same time of day, too: usually the evening, past seven o’clock.

The entire day will be muggy and thick, from the formation of the clouds in the sky to the way the air feels like it can be sliced in half and fed to the people.

And then the darkness of the night lasts nearly twelve hours- which is must too long for Texas standards.

Negan’s on the red vinyl couch in the living room, skin sticking unforgivably to the material as he lies only in his boxer briefs, listening to the rain and the harsh pitter patter it creates against every surface it hits.

He’s been lying there for over an hour, ever since he escorted his lovely one night stand (could you call it a one night stand if it wasn't technically at night?) out the door. Just a few minutes after they’d left, the rain had started, first gentle and lulling before it began building intensity, reaching its full potential.

It was like a song. A song with no discernible end, a song that was not aware of time at all.

Negan’s just been listening.

He tries to avoid the feelings of guilt that dare nip at his skin.

It’s just sex, he tells himself, just an act. But why does it feel so much like he’s cheating? Like he’s done something so unforgivable?

He asks himself these things even though he already knows all the answers.

It’s because it’s Rick. Sweet, sweet Rick.

He changed everything, he made Negan love again.

He made sex seem significant, he made it feel like a bond, like a nonverbal exchange of words and secrets and soul. Sex between them was love.

Sex between Negan and all the whoever elses he’s been seeing is just sex. It’s put it in and then take it out and then see ya’ later.

Maybe it’s just going to take a while for him to forget what sex could be, and just take it as it is.

With time, the rain eases up, and Negan has to strain to hear it. When that happens, he gets up off the couch and goes outside to sit on the porch, where the rain can be better heard.

The scenery, all the dreary water dripping from the sky and pooling easily in puddles on the ground, running off in streams to another location, reminds Negan of a song by Carole King. That woman writes some good shit.

_Looking out at the morning rain, I used to feel uninspired_

_And when I knew I’d have to face another day_

_Lord, it made me feel so tired_

The last thing Negan is now is tired, however. He’s restless more than anything. Anxious, really. Especially with The Saviors debut album coming out soon, and the tour with Gary being right around the corner.

It has him all occupied, which he’s grateful for, since it rarely leaves him with time to think about anything but music. Anytime he’s not thinking about music, he’s thinking about Rick.

Negan’s sitting there for a while before he notices his neighbors in the apartment adjacent to him have decided to lounge about on their own porch as well. They're an old couple, not exactly elderly, but they’re pretty far over the hill.

Negan watches as they sit side by side in plastic lawn chairs, fingers laced together while they stare out at rainfall. Their mouths, upturned in gentle smiles, move as though they’re talking, but Negan’s not close enough to hear what they’re saying. He can, however, hear the tune of a familiar song playing from the stereo that sits between the two old lovers’ legs.

A small, sorrowful smile meets his lips as he remembers telling Rick about those neighbors, complaining to the boy about how they always listened to that one song, have always listened to that one song, ever since Negan moved into this apartment years ago.

“It’s like they don’t know they can listen to something else! Like geez, it ain’t 1979 anymore… and how do they get just that _one_ fuckin’ song to play on that fuckin’ stereo? Did they burn only that song onto a CD...? God, it's the sappiest, most annoying shit I’ve ever fucking seen.” Negan recalls their conversation like it's an old film reel, playing back in his mind.

“I think it’s cute,” Rick had declared, sincerely, as the two of them peeked out the window, snooping on their neighbors, “It’s their song. Let ‘em be.”

Negan had rolled his eyes, but he was hopelessly in love.

That's when Rick turned suddenly, looking up at Negan with glossy blue eyes, so amused. “What’s our song?”

Negan, flustered, had replied with, “I.. I don’t know.”

Rick shrugged, unbothered, and smiled, “We’ll find one.”

They never got to find one, though.

But maybe that song, that overplayed seventies flop of a song, could be theirs once those old farts hit the dust.

Negan listens carefully, trying to find the song that’s getting easily entangled with the sounds of the rain.

_When we're out in the moonlight  
_

_Lookin' up on the stars above  
_

_Feels so good when I'm near you  
_

_Holdin' hands and makin' love  
_

_Oooh baby, yes oh baby  
_

_Yes oh baby, yes oh baby_

-

Beth’s been side eyeing Negan since their shift started. She probably thinks she’s being smooth about it, but her gaze is too heavy to go unnoticed.

It’s their last day at the shop before the tour commences, and Negan is having a hard time processing that, after having worked here for years.

It’s a slow day, and all the two have been doing is sitting behind the counter in near silence. Occasionally, Beth will hum something or get up to put a new record on the turntable, but all of it just feels like white noise to Negan, who sits there with his head held up by his palms.

He looks at all the aisles, filled with music and memorabilia, and realizes he basically grew up here, did more growing up in this store than he ever did in his parent’s house back in Washington.

He doesn’t even consider his parent’s house his home, he considers the small, shitty apartment just a few blocks away his home. Austin is his home. All this music is his home, and it always has been.

And now he’s gotta leave it.

Something like sadness blooms in the center of his chest, and it spreads out into every corner of his body.

“It’ll make you feel better if you talk about it,” Beth states suddenly, the first words spoken between them in hours.

Negan looks over his shoulder to where she stands, “Are you asking me to talk to you, or are you making me?”

“Asking, you dipshit. But if I have to make you, I will.”

An amused smile dresses his lips, but it’s nothing like usual, it’s much more subdued. He says nothing, and averts his gaze back to the graffitied counter. There’d been many days like this where business was slow and he’d sit in the exact same spot he’s at now, just daydreaming about taking Rick on this counter and pounding into the boy’s ass until his dick just turned to fuckin’ dust and disappeared. He’d get every moan and gasp Rick made on record and he’d listen to it all the fucking time and it would win Grammys and shit.  

Maybe he’s just being dramatic, but he thinks he’s starting to forget what Rick sounded like under his hand. He tries to recall, and all he gets is a faint idea, highlighted with the noises of the few random lovers he’s had since Rick left.

“That’s it? You’re just gonna smile and go back to fuckin’ the counter with your damn eyes?”

“There’s nothing to talk about, Beth!” He groans, “For fucks sake… Everyone wants me to fucking talk and for once in my life I have nothing to fucking say!" He shakes his head, "All my life all I’ve ever fucking heard is ‘You talk way too much! Don't you ever shut the fuck up?’ and now everyone just wants me to speak. No one’s ever fucking happy, I swear to shit, man…”

His words seem to go in one ear and out the other as Beth catches a tune and starts singing, jovial and light, _“ You talk way too much, you’re not supposed to say that.”_

God, is it that annoying when he does it, too?

He rolls his eyes and shakes his head. When he’s just about to turn away, Beth speaks up.

“I'm just gonna take a shot in the dark here and guess that you're afraid to lose this,” Her head is tilted studiously. She gestures towards the expanse of the shop, “You've had it so long.”

Negan is silent, but the shy look on his face tells Beth it's a yes.

“Don’t be afraid. Nothing’s yours in the first place,” she speaks so lightheartedly despite the heaviness of her words, “You just think that it is.”

“Geez, that makes me feel real fucking peachy. I think you might have fucking cured me, Bethy.”

Now Beth rolls her eyes, “You just can’t handle the truth.”

Negan shrugs, “That’s true.”

-

“Daryl and I are finally together,” Beth says, conversationally.

Their shift just ended and she’s still riding Negan’s ass trying to get him to just talk to her. If she’s lucky, maybe she’ll get him to cry… Y’kno, let it all out.

“That’s cool,” Negan says, noncommittal, as he basically power walks back to the apartment. Beth follows along, only because he invited her over to help him finish up writing a few incomplete songs, and she unabashedly uses the opportunity to follow up on her pursuit of coaxing Negan out of his shell.

“Because of you,” Beth adds, “If it weren’t for you we wouldn’t be together right now.”

“Well, good fucking luck to the two of you, ‘cause one day it’s all gonna fall to shit and you’re gonna be left a puddle of piss and tears on the fucking ground.”

“Thanks,” Beth deadpans. She’s unfazed by his bitterness, instead, she just uses it as some insight into what stage of grief he could possibly be dwelling in.

“When’s the last time you talked to Rick?” She asks easily as Negan’s unlocking the front door.

He turns to her while his hand is lying still on the knob, a tired and fairly annoyed look on his face, “I’ll forgive you just this once, but say that name again while you're in my apartment and you’ll never be welcome here any fucking more.”

Beth rolls her eyes, silently calling him on his bluff, “You’re such a fucking drama queen.” When they’re inside, she continues, “You fuck a different piece of ass every other night, anyone with their head on their fucking shoulders would think you’ve gotten over Rick.”

Negan gives her a cold glare.

“Yeah, that’s right, I fucking said it. Rick, Rick, Rick, Rick, Rickety-fuckin’- Rick.”

His jaw clenches awfully tight, but he does nothing except grab his guitar from his room and return only to settle into the couch. Beth sits beside him and listens patiently as he tunes up.

After he’s done that, he goes idle for a long second, hands falling into his lap while his guitar is tucked lifelessly under his arm, and then he says, “I haven’t talked to Rick since that phone call we had the day before I asked you to come over.”

That's not too long ago.

“Why don’t you call him?”

“You don't think I tried that? ...It just goes straight to voicemail.”

Beth's quiet for a moment, chewing her lip thoughtfully, and then she says, “Why don't you, maybe, go to his house?”

She looks up at him with blue eyes swimming in eagerness and hope, so infectious that Negan actually considers it for a moment, going to Rick's hometown and showing up at his door. He imagines Rick going easily into his arms, both of them crying because they love each other so much and because it's been too long since they've last seen each other- though it's only been a few weeks.

But he shakes his head clean of those thoughts, because he knows he’s the last thing Rick would want to see right now. He can’t bear the thought of being face to face with the boy and seeing all the harsh resentment and plain hatred he’s so confident must be there, lying thick in the fine lines of Rick's skin that’s always laid so worrisome.

Ultimately, he decides against it, but he hates the embarrassment that flusters him as he admits to himself that he’s afraid of facing everything.

Facing Rick, more importantly.

Quickly he grows defensive as he says, “Jesus, Beth, do you think life is like some shitty as fuck Nicholas Sparks movie? He doesn’t want to fucking see me, okay? I have to fucking respect that. I have to deal with that. I can deal with that,” he’s mostly talking to himself at this point.  He nods, “I can.” But voice breaks around those last couple of words.

Beth hears everything in his voice, and it's a whole lot of shit she’s felt herself but still cannot explain. For a moment, she’s lost in a pensive silence, thinking hard, her face showing it. But then in the blink of an eye her skin is light again, glowing with an idea that when voiced aloud, catches Negan off guard.

She takes Negan’s guitar from him, and settles its body into her lap, “How about I play and you sing.”

Negan, who’d already been eyeing her wearily, only grows more tentative as well as confused, “I don’t sing.” He says it with an ill sense of manly pride, but the girl senses some insecurity along with it.

“Everyone sings,” Beth says with a roll of the eyes.

“Yeah, but not everyone can fucking sing good-”

“I’m not askin’ you to become the next American fuckin’ idol, I’m askin’ you to just sing. Good or bad,” There’s a humored chuckle from Beth, and then she adds, “Probably bad, but hey, it’ll be on my end, too.” Beth plucks a string, letting it ring out. Negan notes how her fingers are swallowing up the guitar pick awkwardly and a little more than incorrectly, and it forces a laugh from his uptight body.

Beth laughs along, “I ain’t Hendrix. But I’m better than Clapton, I bet.”

“Everyone’s better than Clapton,” Negan comments.

Beth nods. They both despise Clapton, it’s the basis of their friendship. “Fuck Clapton.”

Negan ends up singing, and Beth ends up playing the guitar. They both suck ass, but it’s fun.

They don’t write any new songs, don’t finish up any of their works in progress. It’s nothing serious.

It’s music.

“You’re not that bad at singing,” Beth says once they’ve worn themselves out, “Once you got comfortable I heard you. Your actual singing voice.”

“Shut up,” he mumbles, and he blushes a little, much to his dismay.

Beth continues, “I mean it. People think good singing is all about notes. Hitting notes and riffing runs. I think good singing is about meaning what you sing and liking singing. Too many people want to sound like someone else and that makes them suck.”

Negan considers that, “I think it’s the same thing with the guitar. Maybe with any instrument. Or fucking anything in life, man.”

“Yeah,” Beth agrees with a warm smile.

Negan smiles back, and he feels different from how he did just a while ago. “ We’re like fucking life gurus. We’re figuring it all the fuck out, huh?”

“Maybe you’re just putting this shit together,” Beth hmphs teasingly, “I learned this all a long time ago. I think maybe it was in my blood all this time.”

“What was? Singing?”

Beth shakes her head. “Intuition,” she answers, “It’s a woman’s guide.”

“Is it now?”

“Mhm.”

Curiously, Negan asks, “And what’s a man’s guide?”

Beth's face twists in thought for only a second, and then suddenly she finds the answer, “His feet... Bob Marley used to say 'my feet are my only carriage' and I always thought he was just talking about transportation, but I think it's something more."

“No shit, huh?” Negan chuckles disbelieving, wondering where the fuck Beth gets this shit from. She’s not even high. “What makes you think that?”

Beth swallows and grows a hair of seriousness, “It’s what got you to Austin, right? Action. It’s what got Daryl to Austin. It’s what brought my daddy here after my mama died: Taking action,” she continues, clarifying, “Taking the first step.”

Negan blinks and turns his gaze to the squeaky red material of the couch. He wonders briefly how shit between him and Beth flip flops from seriousness to shit talk in the matter of seconds. Maybe that’s just friendship.

“Well,” Negan says after a while, taking a deep breath, “Call Daryl. And Dwight. I wanna jam before we have to be on the road tomorrow.”

-

At the last minute, they ended up adding a few more shows in a few rural towns to the Texas leg of the tour .

So far they’ve just been small gigs in bars and dance halls, and after spending the last month opening up for Gary in big arenas that held thousands of fucking people, it was a nice breath of fresh air- it seemed like every small bar reeking of beer and sweat, and every dance hall full of the sound of boot heels tapping against the dull, scuffed wood floorboards was the same as the many they'd left behind in Austin.

Negan doesn't memorize the names of the small towns that their newest gigs take place in, he learns them and then mentally dumps the name out the window whenever the night of that particular show has passed.

So when he asks Gary what town their next show will be in, and the name that he provides rings familiar in his head, he tries to remember _why_ he remembers that name.

The only places he'd ever been to in Texas before this tour were Austin and Rick's hometown…

It takes a few minutes for it to finally hit him.

 _“Shit!”_ He exclaims aloud, though he hadn't meant to.

Gary furrows his brow, “Uhh, everything alright, man?”

Negan looks up at Beth, who as he had expected, is eyeing him worriedly- just like every other passenger of the tour bus currently is.

But there's a question written on her skin and Negan nods in response to it.

Her eyes widen, and she immediately extracts herself from Daryl.

“What's going on?” Dwight asks as Beth and Negan excuse themselves to the privacy of the back of the bus, where all the bunks reside.

“It's confidential, motherfucker.” Beth says as she leads a distraught Negan away.

There’s really only a thin curtain of fabric that separates the two of them from the others, but it’s as private as it could possibly get.

“The next show, it’s in Midland,” she states in matter of fact. Negan, who’s began to feel weak, sit in one of the lower bunks. It makes him sink to Beth’s measly height. “Is that where he lives? Rick?”

That name is a dull thunk to his head whenever his ears finally process her words. He hasn’t heard it said aloud since the beginning of the tour, everything has been bustling about, everyone’s been working so hard- living in the now, not dwelling in the past like Negan is guilty of doing from time to lonely time.

Like the names of the towns and cities in Texas, there have been quite a few names of people that Negan has learned just for nightly disposal. Some names he doesn’t even bother to learn most of the time. It's all just sexual business, a fun chore. Carefree and careful and mutual and fleeting.

Rick’s is a name that can never be disposed, however. There’s not a moment that goes by where he doesn’t hear that name in his head, see it floating around in his head like it’s a concrete and actual thing.

“No,” Negan answers Beth finally. He doesn’t know how long he’s been silent, “It’s not where he lives, but it’s close. Maybe forty minutes away.”

Beth nods, and goes to sit next to Negan on the bunk. Though she hates to admit, seeing Negan like this really scares her. It’s like he disappears sometimes, and that’s frightening when you consider how much of a being Negan usually is.

“Do you think he knows we’re playing there? Do you think he’ll come?” Negan asks after a moment.

Beth hears the yearning in his voice, and it pulls tightly on her own heart strings . “I don’t know,” she shrugs, because she doesn’t want to say no, but she can’t lie and say yes, “You tell me. You knew him better than I did.”

“I don’t think he does,” Negan admits, answering his own questions, “I don’t think he will.” He gives a single, mirthless chuckle, full of cold nostalgia. “He’s probably back in school, or fuckin’ working...or something. He’s probably too immersed in that. He’s probably just.. fuckin’... going on autopilot again.” He’s thinking aloud at this point, “I don’t think he’s got his phone turned on. I try to text him and it never goes through.”

Upon hearing the heavy sorrow soaking in his voice, Beth moves in closer to him, wraps an arm around his shoulder in an attempt to form a hug despite their awkward position.

Negan still appreciates it, and something in her touch makes him crack. “I miss him so much,” he admits, and it spills from his throat like sour bile, his throat tightens around it, “I miss him more than anything, Beth.”

“I know,” She says, so quiet and soft it feels like a feather has fallen from the sky and touched on his skin.

He feels tears sting his eyes, and he wants to damn the watery-ness away, but he can’t today. 

“You know, the first show we had, I wanted him to be there so bad. So fucking bad. I was so close to just fucking flaking, just walking away and leaving everything to fall to shit. But I thought… if Rick were there, he wouldn’t let me pussy out and ruin shit for everyone like a little bitch. He’d tell me something nice that I didn’t deserve to fucking hear just to make me feel alright, and I’d go onstage and play, and when I got off he’d be there- But he wasn’t.” He bites at his lip nervously. A tear falls and his blurry vision becomes clear again. “He wasn’t.”

“He could be,” Beth suggests, but even she hears the weariness she exudes. She tries to push that all away, for Negan’s sake. “He can.”

Negan spares her a look that reads full of exhaustion, but she goes on, this time honestly.  

“He will be,” she says confidently, because she believes it.

She gets a scoff in return, “I know I’m crying in your arms and shit but you don’t have to fucking lie to me just to get me to stop.”

“I’m not lying,” Beth says, and she pulls away to show her seriousness. She looks him square in the eye, “He’s gonna come to the show because you’re gonna ask him to. You’re gonna go to his house, and tell him we're playing nearby and ask him if he wants to go.”

“He doesn’t want to see-”

She continues, interrupting him, “If he says yes, good. If he says no, good. This isn’t about you getting him back. It could be, but it isn’t. This is about you getting closure. Both of you.”

_Closure._

Negan lets that word roll around in his head. It sounds nice.

“Okay,” he nods, finally.

Beth nods back.

-

The last time Negan was standing in front of the door to Rick’s parents house, Rick was beside him, the sun was slapping his skin red, and he was carrying a couple of heavy bags.

He had knocked, and waited, his skin growing uncomfortably tight as he thought the worst, envisioning awful scenes of sadness and disappointment that could carry on if the support of Rick’s father never came.

He never got to come out to his parents: that was as close as he’d gotten- as close as he’d ever get.

Now, as he stands in front of that same door in the darkness of a night dressed with warm gusts of wind, he rings the doorbell he’d missed the first time.

He didn’t like doorbells anyway, he always felt like they didn’t work, like no one could here him, and either way, there’s nothing quite like using the pounding of a fist to make your presence known.

Today though, the doorbell will have to suffice- and suffice it does.

When Negan hears the clinking of heavy heels against the floorboards, he sees Rick’s bowlegged, cowboy boot clad gait. He prepares himself to come face to face with those blue eyes and those rosy lips, his breathing grows labored just thinking about it. He can’t wait to see his cute nose and his faint eyebrows- can’t wait to see his face.

But when the door swings open, Negan’s heart jumps up into his brain for naught.

“Negan?” Comes Rick’s father- shit, what the fuck was his name again?

He’s eyeing Negan like he’s a hideous stain on his plain button up shirt, looking both alarmed and, frankly, disgusted.

Negan loses the majority of his nerve, as well as his ability to speak, but he finds them both after a second. “Hi, uh, Mr. Grimes. Can I talk to Rick?”

The older man’s brow pinches together in distress, eyes widening just a little. “He’s not here right now,” He says, just a little too quickly. “Now please, it’s late, it’s a weekday.” He begins closing the door, but Negan puts his hand out to stop him.

The look he gets in return makes him regret his actions, but still he goes on, albeit reluctantly, “When you see him, can you tell him I came by?” With his free hand, he reaches into his jacket pocket to grab an envelope, “And could you give him this?”

Mr. Grimes purses his lips, but ultimately takes the envelope, though he does so with more attitude than required. He sighs and asks, firmly, “Is that all?”

Negan pauses. He wishes it wasn’t, but it is. He’s about to open his mouth to confirm that that is, in fact, all, but then the loud sounds of someone bounding down the stairs interrupts him.

“Dad, who’s there?” He hears, and the sound of the voice makes him unable to speak.

But when he _sees_ him, dressed in that familiar 'jeans and a t-shirt' ensemble and a little skinnier than usual, but still _Rick_ _,_ he finds his voice.

 _“Rick!”_ He all but yells, and the second his cry hits the air, the boy stops in his tracks half way down the staircase and whips his head towards the sound.

Things slow down, it seems, then their eyes meet and time really stops, Negan swears it does. But then it harshly resumes with the words, “Rick, you go back upstairs now!” being spat into the air, and the sudden swing of a wooden door attempting to close.

Negan catches it before it can, using every ounce of strength to keep it open.

“Let me talk to Rick!” He pleads, his voice breaking around the amount of force he’s using just to keep the door man. Rick’s old man sure is a strong motherfucker.

“Get off my property!” Each word is served with a thick layer of distaste, and then Mr. Grimes’ forceful efforts to shut the door recede, and Negan is sent falling back with the sudden leeway, losing hold of the door as he stumbles, tripping over the front steps and landing gruffly on the concrete walkway.

When he recovers, his head rattles with an intense anger, an anger that drives him to get back on his feet.

He will _not_ be humiliated.

He paces back to the door, and pounds against it’s lovely polished wood with his fist, hard enough that he knows the skin of his hand will be tarnished purple and red in due time, but honestly, fuck a fucking doorbell.

“Let me talk to Rick!” He says again, but it’s darker this time and much more demanding, rooting now in frustration rather than desperation- a roar from deep within his boiling red gut.

“I’m calling the cops!” Mr. Grimes contends, voice muffled by the thick door between them, but there’s not much backbone behind that threat, and if there is, Negan snaps it between two of his fingers like a meager twig.

He grits his teeth together, speaking into the varnish of the door like it’s Rick’s father, each angry word slipping from his tongue like venom, showering anguished spit from his enraged tongue, “Call the fucking cops, motherfucker! How many you got in this sorry ass, shit smelling town? Nine point fucking five?! You’re gonna need all them and then fucking some!”

When he grabs a few sizable rocks off of the summer-fried lawn and starts chucking them at the door and at random fucking parts of the house that just so happen to unfortunately fucking be there, he doesn’t think about it. He just does it.

He doesn’t hear the commotion going on behind that door between Rick and his father, all he hears is the ringing in his ears and the muted thwack of stone after stone being thrown and landing harshly against the red brick of Rick’s home.

He throws and throws until he can’t find anything else to throw but pebbles, which after a few tries, he deems useless and settles with throwing himself on the itchy grass below his feet that grows in patches on the dusty earth

And then after a while, behind his gasping breaths, he hears it: the sound of sirens far off in the distance, and it’s like someone flips a switch inside of him, replacing all of his steaming rage with a cowardice shade of fear.

Quickly, he gets up off on his feet and walks off Rick’s lawn as casually as he possibly can, but then the sirens get louder and his heart begins to race, and before he knows it he’s full on sprinting down the road trying to fucking remember where the fuck Beth said the bus would be parked.

For just one second, once he deems himself far enough, he thinks he’s in the clear, and he lets his speed dwindle down.

That’s how he hears the intimidating as fuck sound of footsteps sprinting towards him with relentless speed, and he doesn’t even give himself half a second to look back before he’s running again, trying not to let the speed of the stranger behind him discourage his hot pursuit.

But the stranger wins, and he’s tackled to the ground, an audible _Ooof!_ leaving his lips.

His eyes are crinkled shut, both in pain and anticipation as he awaits the sound of his rights being read to him, of metal handcuffs clinking and then clasping over his wrists.

It isn’t until he hears Rick’s voice hissing at him, sharply saying, “God, why are you such a goddamn idiot, Negan?” that he notices the sirens are far, far away from him.

He opens his eyes.

And if it isn’t fucking high school track star Rick Grimes, pinning him to the ground on some ugly pothole ridden road, looking like he’s barely broken a sweat.

“Rick,” he says, and it’s almost like he’s sighing, his voice gravelly and wispy from all the yelling and running he’s done. He looks up at him, thinking it has to be a dream, seeing Rick’s face, hearing his voice. But he figures if it was a dream, Rick wouldn’t be looking down at him with such sad, shadowy eyes.

He reaches a hand up, pushing away the stray curls that have fallen forward so he can get a better look at the boy’s face. Something tells him this is going to be the last time he’ll see this face for a good long while.

He lets his thumb graze his temple, lets his fingers run through his scalp. “Rick,” he says again, a peaceful mantra.

“Why are you here, Negan?” Rick asks quietly.

Negan gives a half-assed, wilted smirk, “I was in the neighborhood-”

Rick shakes his head, though it’s not abrupt enough to dislodge Negan’s hand. “Don’t do that,” he demands, though his voice is no higher than a whisper, “Why are you here?”

Negan goes quiet, and just stares up at Rick’s skin for a while- at his gaunt cheekbones and at the indigo shadows beneath his eyes. He’s clean shaven, no beard or stubble.

He moves his hand to Rick’s cheek, feels the faint prickle under the stroke of his thumb.

“We have a show in Midland tomorrow,” he begins softly. Rick’s face twists with understanding, and he continues, “I wanted to ask you to come.”

“You know I can’t,” Rick reasons.

Negan nods, “I know, but it was worth a shot.”

Now Rick moves his hand to let his fingers card through Negan’s hair, which lies dark and stringy against the dusty shades of asphalt beneath them.

“Thank you,” Rick says sometime later, and Negan doesn’t like how it sounds like a conclusion, “for the t-shirt… and the record.” Negan watches as he swallows down the tears that form a lump in his throat, “and for giving me a place to live when I needed one-”

“It doesn’t have to be over, Rick,” it's an undying plea, “Don’t talk like it’s over, please, baby.”

“It _is_ over.” They’re such harsh, cruel words, but they're spoken so gently. It almost changes their meaning.

“No,” Negan begs, a whimper crushing his pride as he brings his other hand up to fully cradle Rick’s face, “No, you can- you can come with me. We have room on the bus, you can come with me, and we can see everything together. I- Rick, I need you. I need you there with me. I can’t do it by myself.”

“Don’t say that, Negan. You can do it, and not just because I said so. You made it so far without me, you can do it again.”

“Please-”

“I said no,” Rick says firmly, but still so mild and gentle, “I can’t experience everything through you. I can’t live through you. I have to do it by myself,” he sighs shakily, “Okay?”

Negan nods despite the deep frown nestled on his face.

They stare at each other for just a moment longer, and then their lips meet in a kiss that is at first just a soft peck, but it heats up quickly, filled with so much yearning their teeth knock together more than any kiss should ever need.

Rick’s the first to pull away.

“We’re gonna get up, and you’re gonna walk away and I’ll go back and tell them that I couldn’t find you anywhere, alright?”

Negan nods, wishing he could keep Rick pressed against him just a little longer as the boy gets to his feet.

“Rick?” He says, when he too is off of the ground.

“Yeah?”

“I gave your Dad an envelope, it has two tickets to tomorrow's show. He probably threw them in the fuckin’ shredder, but if he didn’t, I know you can’t go, so I don’t know, maybe give ‘em to a friend or whoever the fuck. Maybe your mom, she has a decent taste in music… But she probably hates me now cause I threw rocks at her house-”

“Negan," Rick says, hushing the other man, "I get it.”

“My bad."

There’s a faint smile on Rick’s lips that Negan hopes he isn’t making up, though there’s something bittersweet marking it at the edges.

“Go run before the cops see you.”

Negan obliges, but he doesn’t run. Instead, he takes his sweet time, walking backwards and watching as Rick’s figure grows smaller and smaller in his eye-line, until the boy turns a corner and he’s gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all for reading! <33333 as always, feedback and constructive criticism are more than welcome! :) i hope you enjoyed.


	4. Rick's Second Year

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs mentioned in this chapter include:  
> 'Maisie' by Syd Barrett  
> 'Nowhere Man' by The Beatles

Rick's second year at home was all about baby steps.

Of course, after seeing Negan again so unexpectedly that one night, his skin was left with a lingering itch, a kind of tickle.

For a couple of months, he was on edge waiting for Negan to pop up again, anticipating it. He spent a lot of his time thinking of what he would do if Negan came back again. Every single time he thought about the man- and he thought about him a lot- it was like his firm stance withered that much more.

After every daydream he let himself soak in, he decided that he would just give in if Negan should come by again.

He’d join Negan again in his new life of excitement and adventure, and find a way to somehow just  _be_ inside the life of it all.

But when that never happened and Negan never did show, he had the time to reform his beliefs, and realize that while just being- whether it was being in love, or just plain being nonetheless- was standard, he could not _be_ just anything.

So he got on with his life, slowly but surely. Baby steps.

It started with being more open. Once he got that down, everything seemed to flow a little easier.

But it was hard at first. He was never used to his mother doting on him, but after he went away to college, his mother had seemed to cherish him more, for lack of a better word, and after she saw how distressed he’d become after Negan, the incessant doting and offers of confidence were bountiful and withstanding.

Rick began to take advantage of that, before it could run away from him. After all, it's not like his father was going to pleasantly chat over cookies and milk about the events of his life in Austin any time soon, and while Abby was a great listener and never one to be judgemental, she was an old woman who didn’t deserve to bare Rick’s stressors on her shoulders.

So he told his mother everything, all the things he had told Rosita and more. It was a little awkward, and it didn’t happen all in one sitting, but Rick’s mother had a way of peeling her son’s secrets away layer by quiet layer.

The more Rick shared, the more his mother saw the kind of person she never knew her son had become- the more she saw how rehearsed and spineless her son had once been.

She was not too happy about Rick having lived with Negan, as Rick had expected, but it was all in the past, and there was nothing she could do about it.

“Do you think it was… real?” Rick had asked, after he had shared all he could with his mother, sparing her the dirty details, “Do you think we were really in love? Or was it just- I don’t know, me being excited about actually having something with someone for the first time?”

“Well, Ricky,” his mother began, sighing her maternal sigh, “Only you know what you felt. I can’t tell you anythin’ about your life, it’s your job to find all that out. I can only guide you sometimes. Or try to.”

Rick had nodded, though he was unsatisfied with the answer.

His mother, sensing his impatience, said, “You two did look very happy together, I must say. Like two bumps on a log, the both of you.. But I’m just your mother. Only time can tell, honey.”

When he wasn’t spending his time forcing himself to open up to his mother, he was busy not going to school and working his newly acquired job at a local, family owned gas station.

In the first few weeks he had miraculously managed to befriend a couple of his co-workers who were around his age: one of them being a quirky girl named Tara, who usually works the graveyard shifts and has plans of becoming a registered nurse because according to her, helping people is in her blood- and the other being a boy named Noah who doesn’t have the slightest clue of what he wants to do with his life other than eat at least five square meals a day and get out of the shitty town they live in.

It may be a little selfish, but it’s somewhat reassuring to know that he’s not the only one who’s just walking around trying to figure shit out. He has an idea of what he wants to do, but he just doesn’t know how to go about getting it. _If_ it really is what he wants.

Apart from that, it’s also just plain nice to have friends that didn’t know him before Negan or during Negan. They don’t even know about a Negan, they just know him as he is now- whoever that is.

Sure, he hasn't known them for long, but at least to them he’s known as their friend and not their friend who went through a really messy breakup with some dude who’s always in leather and religiously wears eyeliner and plays guitar, in that order.

Together the three of them do things Rick had always wished he could’ve done when he was in high school, but Rick didn’t really have any friends in high school, unless you count Lori, but even then, that was only in his Senior year.

In retrospect, he thinks his second year back at home was what his high school years should’ve been like.

He made friends and laughed with them, said weird shit with them, shared his fears with them, and it was all reciprocated without hesitation in a manner that only naive teenagers could convey. Which was refreshing considering the three of them were either beginning to enter their mid-twenties, or were already in them.

They weren't like Glenn or Maggie, or any of the other friends he'd made in Austin, but he thinks they're what he needs now.

And maybe they need him, too.

“Hey, Rick?” Tara calls just as the boy is about to open the door to the store, ready to leave, both of their shifts having ended. Noah hadn’t shared this shift with them, unfortunately, but things had gone along just fine.

Rick pauses and turns to face her, “Yeah?”

“Um, do you- do you mind if I wash some of my clothes at your house?” She asks, unusually sheepish.

Rick's brow furrows with confusion at her uncharacteristic shyness, she's washed her clothes at his house many times before.

“Yeah, of course,” Rick answers, pushing his worries away “My mom was askin’ about you the other day, was wonderin’ when you and Noah were gonna stop by again… and I could use the ride. I really wasn’t lookin’ forward to the walk home.”

Tara laughs conversationally, but it sounds stiff in his ears.

When they get into her car, Rick immediately notices the way the backseat is full of her dirty laundry, which isn’t unusual for Tara, but there’s other things, too.

Her laptop, various plug in chargers, some shoes, books, journals, and packages of food- open and unopened, some empty, others not.

Rick’s pretty sure her car hadn’t been in this shape the last time he’d been in it, which was no less than a week ago.

It looks like she’s been living out of her car.

He’s too busy mentally debating whether or not he should bring it up to notice they’ve been driving in an awkward silence for a few minutes now.

It’s not until the car comes to a sudden stop on the side of the road that he snaps out of it, and notices Tara on the verge of tears, leaning forward onto the steering wheel. A second later, she’s sobbing, hard and heavy, knocking her head against the wheel repeatedly and causing the horn to release it’s honk in short, abrupt spurts.

Rick stops her, gently saying, “Hey, Tara, what's the....what’s wrong?”

“I’m gay, Rick!” She yells, voice hoarse with tears and sorrow, “I fucking like girls a lot. I love girls, I love them! Is that- is that bad?”

Shit, Rick thinks, that’s what it is. He eyes her with an intense empathy, remembering the awful, conflicting feelings that had once consumed him when he first realized he was attracted to men.

“No,” he says softly, moving to put a reassuring hand on her shoulder. Firmly, he added, “It’s not a bad thing. Not at all.”

At that, Tara cries harder, but she stops banging her head against the horn.

Rick keeps his hand on her shoulder, squeezing lightly.

When her first wave of sorrow has gone, and she moves to sit up straight, he speaks up, asking, “Tara, are you living in your car?”

She nods, squeezing her eyes shut to fight off the next round of tears that sting a warning call, “My parents, they kicked me out. I told them and they kicked me out.”

Rick’s heart drops immediately at her words, but it’s soon replaced with a strong irritation. How could someone do this to their kid? And over something as minor as their sexuality. It boggles Rick’s mind.

“They’re cutting all ties with me, just completely erasing me from their lives,” she sniffs hard, rubbing her nose with the back of her hand, “All of them, even my little niece… They make me out like I’m some monster, but I’m the same person I’ve always been. I’ve never liked boys! ...No offense.”

“None taken.”

Rick swallows hard. This could’ve easily been him, and had it been, he wouldn’t have had the slightest clue of what to do, he relies on his parents for so much.

Of course, at the time Rick had Negan- he had someone. He had many someones he knew he could turn to. He had the tiny pink house down the road where he’d never been turned away.

He doesn’t think Tara has anyone or anything like that right now, maybe just him and Noah.

“I’ll probably just live in the dorms once the fall semester starts.. even though they smell like old socks,” she begins after a while, mostly thinking aloud, “It’ll cost me more, though. I’ll just ask to pick up more shifts, apply for some loans.. if I can… Until then, I don’t know… is it illegal to sleep in your car in Texas?”

“Yes,” Rick answers, even though he’s not too sure. He just doesn’t want that to be an option in her mind. “You can stay at my house tonight.”

Tara looks like she wants to accept, but still she fishmouths, treading on the edge of an answer.

“I- I don’t know, Rick. I don’t wanna intrude-”

Rick cuts in immediately, giving her a reassuring look, “You won’t be.”

-

When they get back to his house, Rick takes Tara up to his room, telling her to make herself comfortable while he seeks out his mother.

It doesn't take long to find her: She's sitting at the kitchen table, coupled with a paperback book and nursing her heinous caffeine addiction with a cup of coffee, despite the ungodly hour.

“Hey,” he greets simply, going to take the empty seat adjacent to her. She looks up at him with a smile, skipping a greeting to ask, “You just got outta work?”

“Yeah,” Rick answers, readying himself with a breath before he decides to cut to the chase, “Do you mind if Tara stays here tonight? Maybe a little longer?”

She quirks an eyebrow, “Tara’s here?”

Rick nods, “She’s upstairs.”

“Well sure, honey,” she answers, but she’s got that look on her face. It’s that same all consuming concern that she’d been feeding Rick for months- nearly a year-  until he’d finally spilled the beans and shared his woes with his mother. “Is everything alright?”

Rick swallows. “She came out to her parents,” is all he says. It's all he has to say for her to understand.

His mother purses her lips in distaste, the same distaste Rick had felt when Tara had informed him of her situation. She shakes her head, and Rick thinks he sees her eyes growing watery.

“She can stay here as long as she wants,” she states, ultimately, “Tell her I said that.”

Rick gives her a gentle, grateful smile. “I will,” he says, and then, “Thanks, mom.”

She returns the soft look, though hers is much more watery, and then she’s moving out of her chair, going to swallow Rick up in a sudden hug.

He’s a little surprised, but reciprocates nonetheless.

“I love you, Ricky,” she says, a little choked up, but serious and firm, “You’re my baby boy, my first born, my only child. I love you no matter what you are, I’m proud of you no matter what you are.. As long you're not hurtin’ anybody. Or yourself.”

Rick chuckles softly; she can be a little dramatic. Still he hugs her tighter, because he’s so grateful for her and her unconditional support.

“I love you, too, Mom.”

After they pull away, Rick hurries up the stairs to tell Tara the good news.

“Hey, Rick,” she says, chipper and light when he walks in, like she hadn't been in the middle of an emotional breakdown just twenty minutes ago. She's innocently surveying his room, going through all of his things as if it's the first time she's ever been here. He guesses it's the first time she's been here long enough to actually snoop. Right now she's preoccupied with the mess that lies abundantly on the top of his dresser.

“Is this you?” She asks incredulous and urgent, as she grabs one of the tiny prints of Glenn's painting, holding it real close to her eyes and squinting for observation.

She looks up for an answer and Rick nods sheepishly, an amused smile stretching his lips.

“Holy crap! Who did this??”

Rick smiles further at her excitement, but when he thinks about Glenn, he dims a little. Rick misses him.

“A friend of mine from Austin,” Rick answers, “His name is Glenn.”

“Sweet,” she comments further, and then turns her attention back to the top of the dresser.

Rick watches as she grabs another photo, this one an old Polaroid picture, taken by no other than Glenn, once again.

She eyes the front of it with an intense questioning, and then turns it to the back, where she reads the handwriting that's been printed there in a confused monotone, “Rick and Negan arguing, 2017.”

Rick laughs when she pronounces Negan with a soft E, like Megan.

“Negan?” She says again, still incorrect, “What kinda name is Negan? Is that a typo?”

Rick snorts, and does everything in his power not to double over laughing. It takes him a moment to settle down, and Tara eyes him funnily, a few confused chuckles leaving her mouth as well.

“It's _Nee-gan_ ,” he supplies while catching his breath, still giggling a bit as he wipes away the tears his laughter had milked from him.

“Jesus, that's creative,” Tara remarks, before she asks curiously, “What were you two arguing about?”

He moves next to her, looking at the photo so he can answer her question. When he sees the fed up look on his face and the amused look on Negan's, he remembers.

“We were trying to figure out what kind of music to put on while we were hanging out with some friends,” he answers, “I wanted the Beatles, he wanted Zeppelin.” Rick smiles at the memory, “He told me to name ten Beatles songs and he couldn't believe it when I did. Glenn had taken a picture when we were in the middle of it.”

Rick finds his eyes locked on Negan's face, the way the flash of the Polaroid illuminates his skin, even if it is just the side of his face.

Glenn had given him the photo the day before he came back home, ‘For memories sake,’ the boy had said.

Tara laughs and he comes back from his mind, “So did the Beatles win?”

“Nope,” Rick's smile twists into something cheeky, “He still put on Zeppelin. He just wanted to know if I could name ten songs.”

A sly sheen glosses over her brown eyes. “Is Negan your… _friend?"_   She puts emphasis on the word friend, her eyes careful yet all the while still intent on him.

Rick smirks, “He was my boyfriend.”

“Knew it,” she remarks, smugly, not dwelling much on the _was_ part, “He’s cute, at least from the side.. not my type, too much eyeliner… and he's not a girl, but good on you, dude.”

Rick gives a short, humored huff from his nose, before he remembers the message he was supposed to carry, “Oh, uh, my mom said you can stay as long as you want. We have a guest room down the hall, you can put your things in there.”

Tara gives him a soft smile, shyer than all the previous, “Thank you.” She sets the photos down, casts another quick glance across Rick's room before she says, lightly, “Who would wanna stay anywhere else? Am I right? Your room is pretty neat-o.”

Rick laughs at the word neat-o, “You say that like it's your first time in here.”

She shrugs, “It's not everyday you walk into a room with a giant glob of gum on the wall next to a humongous poster of a young Eddie Vedder.”

Rick looks over to the spot she's described.

Yeah... he's done some decorating, so to speak.

“Plus that record player is pretty rad,” Tara adds, “I see some Pink Floyd in your collection, and I gotta warn ya’, I am a Pink Floyd kinda girl… All those clothes you saw in the back of my car, half of that is Pink Floyd t-shirts.”

“What do you know about Pink Floyd?” Rick asks playfully.

Tara raises an eyebrow, proposing a challenge, “What are you trying to get at here, Rick?”

“Barrett or Gilmour?”

“Barrett,” Tara answers without a doubt in her mind, “Dude was an unconventional genius.. Ever heard _Maisie_ _?_ ”

“Nope.”

“... Don't tell me you're a Gilmour guy..?”

“I am.”

Tara groans, “You and everyone else in the world. Everyone's got the hots for Gilmour.”

“It's the hair… and the lips,” Rick shrugs, then adds, before Tara can intervene, “Let's go get your stuff and get you settled. You must be tired.”

“I work the graveyard shifts, Rick, I’m never tired at night,” she reasons, though she follows Rick outside to her car, “Only baby boomers are tired at night.”

Rick laughs at that, shaking his head, “Yeah, okay.”

Tara grabs all her laundry, not letting Rick handle any of it (“I don't want you to see my dirty underwear, that's weird. I don't know you like that.”), and instead making him handle her books and her laptop and all those kinds of things.

“Hey, you think Noah’s awake?” Tara asks excitedly after they've put her belongings up in the guest room, “Let's call him!”

She doesn't waste a second before she pulls out her phone, dialing the boy's number in record time, and putting it on speaker.

“Yo,” is Noah’s simple greeting.

“Hey, guess where I'm at!!” Tara says giddily, looking up at Rick like she's about to pull the sickest prank known to man as they await Noah's reply.

“Uh, I don't kn-”

“I’m at Rick's house!” She exclaims, “Say hi, Rick!”

“Hey, Noah,” Rick says, amused yet slightly worried by with Tara’s antics. We all grieve differently, he supposes. Maybe she's just trying to see the good in all her tragedy.

“What the hell?! And you didn't invite me??” He asks, voice raising in disbelief, “That ain't right.”

“Sorry, no losers allowed,” Tara quips, taking an immense amount of pride in her burn.

Noah sucks his teeth, “Then why the hell are you there?”

Rick snorts out a laugh, and Tara gives him a look of betrayal that only makes him laugh harder, she looks so genuinely offended.

“Rick, can I come over??” Noah asks, so insistent and childlike.

“I guess, I mean it's pretty late-”

“I'll sneak in through your window, unlock it for me.”

“You sure? It's a pretty high climb.. you could come through the door, y’kno.”

“Nah, man that's boring,” Noah explains, before quickly adding, “Should I bring scrabble? ..Oh shit, I got monopoly, too, should I bring that?”

“Yes!” Tara yells, before Rick can say otherwise.

“Alright,” Noah says, “I'll be there in ten.”

-

Noah gets there eleven minutes and seventeen seconds later, Tara uses the stopwatch on her phone to time him.

“Pull me up!” He groans, fingers gripping onto the window pane like his life depends on it.

Rick rolls his eyes. He really could’ve just used the door.

“You said ten minutes, it’s been eleven,” Tara teases, moving to tickle his fingers.

Noah makes a noise of annoyance, laced with over-exertion, “Man, get your nasty hands away from me!”

Rick and Tara pull him into the room, and he lays lifeless on the ground for a moment, like a sack of potatoes. If a sack of potatoes could pant and groan.

“What was my last time?” Noah asks breathlessly, eyes shut as he lies on his back, spine crooked because of how he lies on his own backpack.

“Ten minutes, fifty-six seconds,” Tara answers.

“You got worse, somehow,” Rick adds, looking down at the boy with a playful grin.

“My bike was flat!” He justifies quickly, “Y’all want me to come here on some saggy ass tires?”

“Excuses, excuses,” Tara tisks.

Noah sits up, and slides his backpack off his shoulders, tossing it to Tara who fumbles a little, but catches it nonetheless, “Your yo-yo is in the front pocket. You left it at my house the other day.”

“Aw sweet!” She exclaims when she retrieves the toy. She gets to her feet and immediately the two boys know what she’s about to do. “You guys wanna see me walk the dog??”

 _“NO,”_ Rick and Noah answer in unison, but she does it anyways, and they watch regardless of their answer.

“So what’s the occasion?” Noah asks Tara later when they’re getting ready to play scrabble, “Why’re you here so late?”

Things get serious suddenly and Tara shrugs, paying much more attention to the tiny wooden squares on the tiny wooden stand than she was before, “My parents kicked me out.”

“No shit?” Noah’s eyes widen incredulously, “Why?”

Rick watches as Tara lifts her head to look him in the eye and say, “I like girls. I’m a lesbian.”

Noah laughs hard, thinking she's randomly stating the obvious and _not_ coming out to him over a game of scrabble, “Well I know that! I see the way you stare at Rosita when she comes over.” He laughs some more, and when he catches his breathe he continues, “No, really, why’d they kick you out?”

“Because, I like girls,” She says again, this time more seriously.

Noah’s post-laugh smile falls grim. “Oh shit my bad,” he apologizes, before asking, “And you're staying here?”

Tara nods solemnly.

“Well damn... I’m glad you’re here then.”

Tara looks up at Rick with shiny brown eyes. He’s already looking back at her, knowingly.

“Yeah,” she says, “Me, too.”

-

Rick doesn't know how the three of them end up at the train tracks a few miles away from his house.

Actually, he does: Noah and Tara are two very impulsive people and Rick just lets their breeze take him. It's refreshing.

They help each other sneak out of Rick's window, and Rick and Noah hop on their bikes. Tara rides on Noah's pegs, since he has them. She could've used Rick's spare bike, but insisted she wasn't up for the exercise.

It seems like a bad idea at first, when they park their bikes and begin walking along the tracks, feet sinking with each step into the earth that had been softened by the loss of the sun, tenderized by the gentle moon. It was kind of boring, and Rick was tired. He could tell Noah and Tara were, too, but for some reason they kept on walking aimlessly in an easy silence until one of them finally spoke up just for the heck of it.

“So is Rosita, like, single?” Tara asks around an animalistic yawn. She asks the question so casually, like she’d been asking the time of day.

The yawn spreads to Rick as he answers with, “I don’t know. I mean, I think so.”

“I’m single,” Noah adds, just throwing that it out there for the sake of being included in the conversation.

“Me too,” Rick adds.

“That’s life,” Noah says solemnly with a shrug, “Born single, die single.”

Rick and Tara nod in consideration, and then things are quiet again, save for the occasional buzz of bugs in their ears and the crunch of twigs and dry leaves under their shoes.

“I had a girlfriend back in Virginia,” Noah says, introspectively. Rick can feel the depth behind his words, and when he turns to glance at Noah, whose eyes look as if their staring straight into the history of something Rick and Tara could never even imagine. “She was cool, but we just... faded. She left for college, and I was still in high school. Not so ideal.”

"I had a boyfriend back in Austin," Rick shares with him, "We sorta faded, too, but.. but it was- it was what I needed. Still hurts sometimes, though, even after two years."

"Shit, man, love roughs you up." Noah remarks.

Rick nods, "Sure does."

They all goes silent again, this time with much more to think about as they trudge softly on their path to nowhere

Their wandering reminds him of his favorite Beatles song Negan had showed him nearly two years ago. Briefly, Rick assesses how long of a time that is. It doesn’t feel too far away when he reminisces on all of the memories he was able to make; it feels like he’s still living through those memories sometimes, when he gets caught in the past.

The lyrics of the song run through his head, like music in his mind.

_He's a real nowhere man  
_

_Sitting in his nowhere land  
_

_Making all his nowhere plans for nobody  
_

_Doesn't have a point of view  
_

_Knows not where he's going to  
_

_Isn't he a bit like you and me?  
_

_Nowhere Man, please listen  
_

_You don't know what you're missing  
_

_Nowhere Man, the world is at your command_

“I’ve never been in a real relationship,” Tara confesses a moment later, “I’ve dated a few boys here and there, but that was just me trying to smother the lesbian in me with a pillow to the face.” Rick and Noah look at her expectantly, knowing she has more to say, and she does. “I’m going to be twenty-two soon and I’ve never been in a real relationship. That’s… freakin’ lame.”

Noah puts a hand on her shoulder, a wordless reassurance. “We’re still young, y’all… There’s gonna be lots of boyfriends and girlfriends and whatever elses for us down the line. Or maybe none. Doesn’t matter.”

Rick gives a thoughtful chuckle.

They walk further only a few steps, until Tara stops walking, and Rick and Noah do the same.

It’s now that they’re standing still that they notice how fast the darkness of the pre-dawn has shifted into a soft looking sky, powder blue- but shifting into a new skin of warm, morning color.

The three of them get off of their feet, sinking into the floor of the earth without a care.

Quickly, the world around them becomes brighter as the sun peeks out of the straight line of the horizon, parting from it with no rush, leaving it only after a long, slow kiss.

Rick spares a glance at his friends, who watch the sky attentively, their undereyes smudged with accommodating shades of slumberless purple.

“I hope there’s more of _this_ waiting for us down the line,” Tara declares, smiling mildly while her eyes never leave the sky, expression softened by her sleepy eyes.

Who knows if she’s talking about the sunrise, or the three of them being together to watch it?

Rick thinks she’s talking about both.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading! I hope you enjoyed :)  
> As always, feedback and constructive criticism are more than welcome! <3333


	5. Negan's Second Year

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs mentioned in this chapter include:  
> 'Candy Says' by The Velvet Underground  
> 'Cocaine' by Eric Clapton (kinda.. lmao)

The Savior’s debut album did alright. It wasn’t a commercial flop, but it was no number one. Negan didn’t really care. If he was being honest, he knew the album they’d made was nothing special, nothing extraordinary or spell bounding like the stuff he wishes he could create, or the stuff his favorite musicians manage to create endlessly. His head was somewhere else when The Saviors had began their first attempts at writing and recording. He was off in a daydream, thinking about Rick, thinking about his parents, thinking about the album that he was supposed to be pouring his soul into.

But he couldn’t do it, he couldn’t concentrate- and when he did concentrate, he overcompensated. It wasn’t natural and it didn’t flow.

Some of their songs he’d listen to and he’d be on the edge of his seat, patiently waiting for the moment where he could feel something like energy flowing from his and his bandmates coupled sounds and into his ears, spreading into his mind and body, from the skin of his scalp to the tip of his toes.

But as soon as he could sense it, it was gone, and it never peaked- like someone had taken their hand off his cock when he was one stroke away from coming. It was an irritating feeling, being so close yet so far, especially when it came to their music.

Music was the one thing he never wants to half ass. Maybe now that he has nothing to lose, he can finally commit himself fully.

“Y’all did good,” Gary states as the California sun filters through his dark, curly hair while he and Negan stroll the near vacant streets of an upper class neighborhood where Gary's second home resides, “Album peaked at 32 on the charts. Not too bad for an impulsive one and a half months in my home studio, writing songs together for the first time.”

Negan wasn't one to celebrate his own mediocrity. He ignored the comment completely.

“I’m ready to start recording for the second album,” He states, not looking at Gary, but at all the green shrubs and trees that decorate the houses they pass by.  Negan sees how they lean lazily aganst the edge of secure metal gates while their leaves and blossoming flowers pour out of the confines like unkempt hair.

It’s shades of pink and lilac, creamy yellows and innocent whites, breaking their beauty off and falling onto the ground as soft velvet petals.

Rick used to write about this kind of stuff, Negan recalls, but only in the Spring- the one Spring they had shared together- when forget-me-nots had littered the sides of the interstate highway, untouchable by human hands, never to be plucked or fondled.

Blue bonnets everywhere, with nowhere to go. Living in that one place and dying there, too as the summer came along, thick and merciless, conforming everything to dryness and dehydrated yellows that match the straw of the brush nearby.

It’s late June here in California, and the nature is still able to hold some of its delicate beauty, unlike its chances in a Texas summer.

In a couple of weeks it’ll be two years since Rick went back home.

“We just quit touring for the first album not too long ago, man,” Gary provides incredulously, as if Negan didn’t know, “You sure about that?”

Negan shrugs, moving his eyes to the smoothly paved road beneath his feet, “What else is there to fuckin’ do? Me and Beth already have a couple songs in the rough, just gotta show 'em to Daryl and Dwight.”

Gary sighs, but ultimately says, “I mean, if you say so… Just gotta talk to the dudes at Warner, get their input.”

Negan rolls his eyes, tone laden with sarcasm and bitterness as he says, “Ahhh, Warner Brothers…. Of fucking course, fuck me in the ass- I forgot!  I forgot getting signed means we have to fuckin' raise our hands and wait patiently with shit eating grins on our faces just to be acknowledged so Warner can wipe our fuckin’ wet asses for us.”

“Hey, you signed the paper, bro,” Gary argues, but he's not as firm as he could be, because he's laughing at Negan’s melodrama, “You coulda dropped the pen and have it been over, we woulda been right out of that office. Beth, Daryl, and Dwight left it all up to you.”

“Yeah, well I was high as shit on shrooms when I signed that paper. All I could think about was being on the same label as the Red Hot Chili Peppers and my brain’s hallucinogenic dick popped the hugest fuckin’ boner.”

Gary shakes his head, laughing some more, “Man…. you're somethin’ else.”

Negan huffs, “Me and every other asshole out there.”

The silence returns, and car whirs past them, unprecedentedly. The driver honks the horn like crazy as the other passengers roll the windows down and wave, their hollers mingling together- all meaning the same thing.

When people do that back in Austin, it means they're on drugs and they're friendly.

When people do that in L.A. it means you're famous, you're with someone famous, or both.

Negan doesn't wave back, but Gary does. He's famous enough.

“Warner’s not that bad,” Gary brings up when things are quiet again, “They didn't change anything on the album, didn't force you guys to do any shitty press… maybe if they had the album would've done better.”

Negan stops walking as an act of defiance, Gary carries on for a few steps until he gives up and turns around.

When their eyes meet, Negan says, “The album didn't do better ‘cause it was fuckin’ mediocre as shit.”

Gary turns away with a scoff and starts walking again, slowly this time, so Negan can catch up, “Yeah, okay. I've only been in this industry for eight damn years, what the fuck do I know?”

“This next album,” Negan says as he all but jogs to catch up to the older man, “is gonna hit number fucking one, because I fucking said so. I feel it in the shit stinkin' air.”

“Yeah, sure.”

Negan reaches into his pockets, grabs a congratulatory joint, and puts it between his lips.

“Mark my motherfucking words, Gary.”

He sparks his lighter, puts the flame to the tip, watching it scorch the measly paper through the stringy strands of dark greasy hair that have fallen over his eyes.

A puff, an exhale.

The Gods are listening from wherever they sit, ears open and pens ready, carving Negan's words into journals of marble and ivory.

-

“What do you want, Negan?”

The Saviors are in a meeting, the four of them- grungy, unkempt, and young- sat parallel to four other middle aged men  with authority and riches, white collars and shiny wrist watches that juxtapose their dull eyes and dry skin, at a long and sleek wooden table.

Negan leans forward in his seat, hands folded together in front of him. “I,” he begins, voice carrying a condescending quality that belittles the class and status of the men before him, “want to know just how much you fucking want me. How much you all, at Warner Brothers records, want us: The Saviors.”

The man directly in front of him swallows calmly, wearing a damn good poker face. “We sought you out, now didn't we?”

Negan laughs, shaking a finger at him as if he'd just told a naughty joke, “Oh, you funny motherfucker. Sought us out you most certainly fuckin’ did-”

“Get to the damn point, Negan!” Beth hisses, her southern accent a smooth bite in the air. She contains herself quickly after that, shooting the men an overly sweet smile before she resumes her patient silence.

“We need a change of environment,” Negan proposes, “A new place to record our music. We’re not recording in your sterile fuckin’ studios.”

“Alright,” he gets in response, “And where would you like to record? We have studios in New York City, London, Washington-”

 _Washington?_  Quickly, fleetingly, memories of his childhood in Tacoma flood his head. Lucille, his mom, his dad, high school, college- he banishes them all away.

“We’re not talking about moving cities,” Negan clarifies, a little more harshly than needed, “We’re talking about moving from the studio completely. Taking it somewhere else, somewhere that isn't so fuckin’ drab.”

“We need somethin’… unconventional,” Beth tacks on, “to inspire us, and make what we put out better.”

That causes a bunch of old, greying eyebrows to raise. “And you really think this would help the quality of your sophomore album?”

“Yeah, we  _really_  think that,” Negan spits defensively towards the suited man who asked.

Surprisingly, he receives a smug smile, “Alright then.”

-

“This place is huge! _”_  Beth exclaims, reveling in the sight of the house before them, a mansion that’s been standing still on the earth since the early years of the 20th century, hidden only by brush and the depths of natural Californian hills.

This is going to be their home, this is where they’ll be recording for the next couple of months. It’s unfathomable.

Beth bounds up the long flight of steps to the door, and Daryl and Dwight follow behind her. Though they do so in a much calm manner, Negan can still see the excitement building to boil behind their eyes and their toothy smiles.

Negan just continues to gawk at the place and its sheer monstrosity. He didn’t think Warner Brothers would actually fucking listen to him, let alone provide them with a fucking mansion to record in.

Ten bedrooms, eight bathrooms. A fucking pool. Amazing views. Isolated from the world, it seems, so they can make music.

It's a dream.

And here he is, with every shitty, minuscule thing he owns fitting in his guitar case.

What a glamorous life.

The inside of the place is vast and empty, a blank canvas waiting to be decorated with furniture- or in their case, recording equipment and instruments.

There’s rugs on the floor of what he assumes to be the living room that have intricate patterns, lying peacefully against the dark but dull wood flooring that seems to go on for the length of a football field.

Artwork is scantily placed upon the walls, old, renaissance style pieces that look like they cost more than everything Negan's ever owned combined.

He looks up at the high ceilings, then brings his hands together in a single clap. He listens as the sharp sound echoes and reverberates in a natural, beautiful way. It brings a smile to his face.

After he's seen the first floor, he goes to join the others, hoping he doesn’t get lost in the vast expanse of the place.

When he finds them, they're upstairs,  already picking rooms.

“This one’s mine,” Beth says, claiming the room with the most natural lighting, “I can already see it. They can set my mic up right here,” she points to a spot next to the window that lets you gaze upon all the rolling wonders of the outside’s greenery, “and I can record my parts in my room whenever I can.”

Negan nods, supporting her idea.

“Sun brings good vibes,” Daryl tacks on, before he asks the girl, “so we’re not sharing a room?”

“Hell no!” Beth answers, “we’re in a damn mansion! … but you can sleep over some nights if you want-”

Negan extracts himself from their ickiness and goes to survey the variety of options that lay open to him.

All the rooms are lux in a Victorian way, dressed in the same dramatic decor with big plush beds framed in dramatic headboards and windows that take up the walls, covered in thick, luxurious curtains of rich and muting colors. He feels out of place in all of them.

Until he comes to the end of the hall, and sees a room that pales in comparison to all the others.

It's about half the size of the rest of them, but still way bigger than the average bedroom.

It's vacant of color and furniture, stripped down to bare necessities.

No rich colors or expensive artwork, just plain cream colored walls all around.

No curtains cover the window, and the sun comes blaring in plain and light, facing the bed- or really just a plain mattress-  that lies flat and unaccompanied on the scratched wooden floor.

Negan drops his guitar case gently onto the ground, wordlessly claiming this room as his.

The air in here is different, he decides, solemn and prim.

“You know, Gary said some dude killed himself in one of these rooms,” Dwight says, voicing his presence. Negan turns to see him standing just a few steps behind him, surveying the room and looking spooked and every bit as out of place as Negan feels. “I'm willing to bet it was this one.”

Negan hmphs in amusement, unfazed by the shared fact, “Yeah? What makes you say that?”

“First of all, the fucking vibes,” Dwight declares as if it's so obvious- and it kind of is. This room definitely feels odd. “And if that wasn't enough, this room looks abandoned to shit. Like someone just tried to completely erase it from the house.”

Negan decides to ignore that bit of truth, “Well… this is where I'll be laying my ass every night until we finish up the album, so I'll keep you updated on whether or not this shit is haunted.”

“I ain't staying here,” Dwight provides quickly, “Ghosts roam.”

Negan guffaws, “Well, where the fuck else are you gonna stay? We’ve got a fuckin’ album to record!”

“Sherry has family here. They live twenty minutes away, I’ll just drive my bike up here every morning,” The blond answers, chill and laid back despite Negan's mood swings, “Look, I've got a wife and baby to my name now, I can't just forget about them.”

“So you're just gonna cut your ass in fuckin’ half and give us the lesser fuckin’ cheek, huh? Nice to know where you stand, Dwighty.”

“I didn't say that,” Dwight cuts in, “I'm still gonna lay down some fucking mountain moving tracks  _and_ go home to my family after all is said and done.”

Negan would be lying if he said he wasn't jealous of the amount of confidence Dwight carried his words with. He was sure of himself.

And Negan was sure of him.

He lets out a sigh, “Alright then.”

Dwight nods quietly, looking Negan in the eye only a second more before he moves his gaze towards the room behind the guitarist's shoulder, “Have fun in your creepy ass room.”

And then he's alone again.

He sits himself down onto the mattress on the floor- a very lumpy mattress at that- and grabs his guitar case, unlatching it to reveal the insides.

He unpacks his guitar, a minimal change of clothes, some weed, and the rolled up print of Glenn’s painting of Rick.

That's all he's been carrying with him since The Saviors started their journey on the road.

Everything else he's left behind or sold for some money to live off of for a while.

He left his record collection at Beth's house back in Austin, because he knows he'll be back there one day, whether it be for a show or for something- or someone- else.

He doesn't even wear underwear anymore… or socks for that matter. How he still manages to get laid every other night is beyond him at this point, but hey, he's not asking any questions.

Deciding to make himself feel more at home, he puts up the print of Rick, using the stick or two of freshly chewed gum that lay in his mouth as a makeshift mounting putty.

It's funny, Rick always used to complain about how bland his room was, or how bland he was. If only he could see this room Negan's in, now  _this_  is bland.

But he's sure he can give this room some life, with time.

“You could've asked for some thumbtacks, y’kno?” Says an unfamiliar voice. Negan looks up to see that voice goes hand in hand with an unfamiliar face. “That's kinda my job. You ask, I do.”

Negan stares into the girl's dark eyes, but finds his gaze faltering to her shaved head. She looks like a 1991 Sinead O’Connor.

“Who the fuck are you?” He asks, ultimately, because that's what you do when a bald headed stranger comes up to you trying to chat you up.

“I'm Alpha,” the girl says, “I'm the band’s assistant.. and maybe personal photographer- if the four of you can dig my eye. But for now, I run around doing all the mundane tasks of average human life so you four can focus on creating the most beautiful, magnificent, ground breaking, historic album of all time.. so to speak.”

“Cool,” is all Negan says before he returns his attention to the print.

“Nice picture,” Alpha comments, still lingering by the doorway.

“Thanks.”

“You know the guy?”

“The artist or the person they painted?”

“Both.”

“Yeah,” Negan answers, looking over at the girl, “I do.”

A pause.

“Which one broke your heart?” She asks, giving him a small, yet smug smile, like she's confident in her guess.

And maybe she has the right to be.

Negan gives a mirthless laugh, going to sit back down on the lonesome mattress, “The painted one.”

Alpha's eyes follow him and his movements before they drift over to the guitar case, specifically the mass amount of green that sits stuffed in a plastic bag.

“What kinda leaf you pack, music man?”

“The kind you ain't getting any of,” Negan quips.

“I'll trade you two tabs of acid for a joint.”

“...Three and you got a deal.”

Alpha smirks, strolling over to the mattress and seating herself beside Negan.

Negan gets a good look at her and sees the intense darkness under her eyes and the dullness of her skin. Her teeth are yellowed from what he assumes to be nicotine addiction- she reeks of the death sticks. Or maybe he's just smelling himself. He's shamed to admit he's getting pretty close to being a 'pack-a-day' smoker. 

“Get to rollin',” she says, to seal the deal.

-

The first couple weeks of writing and recording go by in the blink of an eye.

It’s like a dream come true: waking up at noon with nothing on his case but a bitchin’ hunk of morning wood between his legs, writing and jamming with Beth and Daryl and Dwight until Gary and some other sound guys comes over at around two in the afternoon to assist in recording  and mixing some tracks.

Then it’s just one big, fat, artistic, musical orgy until it’s nearing midnight and Gary and Dwight have to go home to their families.

Then bits and pieces of the real world come in.

Beth and Daryl retire to their rooms, sometimes joining each other- like lovers do, and Negan goes back to his room, trying to stuff those chunks of reality into a gaudy trash bag and smother them dead. To accomplish that, he either gets high, listens to music, continues working on ideas for songs, or masturbates.

He only does the latter when he feels he really needs to. Lately, his interest in sexual activities has been steadily declining, while his focus on music and the creative process required to make some kickass fucking tunes continues to grow and prosper.

It’s not that his dick won’t get up- it does. Sometimes he hears a real sexy groove in a song, or Dwight will lay out a real hard bass line and his dick just goes right the fuck up. But those boners, man, they can be a detriment in their own way.

Because once he gets a hand on his cock, there’s no way of stopping him, and that inevitable, heady orgasm would only serve as a roadblock that keeps Negan from creating, and clears his mind of all the brewing ideas that swim around in his head. Therefore, he treats his arousal as if it’s a knife to his heart. He treats anything that could make him not give one hundred percent of himself to his guitar or to The Savior’s music as a knife to his heart.

He doesn't have to worry about that today, however, because he doesn’t get to do any of those three things. He tries, though.

He’s in his room, stripping himself of his jacket and his t-shirt so he’s just in his jeans, trying to get comfortable, so he can settle into bed and fall asleep to the sweet sounds of The Velvet Underground.

He almost reaches his goal: he’s got the music playing, Lou Reed’s dopey voice lulling dull in his ears, and is about to fall into bed when he turns and sees Alpha- thin, leggy, and bald as ever- standing in his doorway.

When their gazes meet, she doesn't bother saying anything, she just eyes him in that all-knowing, mischievous way she always regards him with, while her camera hangs from her neck like a chunky piece of jewelry. Negan’s gotten used to seeing her with it, now that she’s been hired to take promo pictures of The Saviors. He’s also gotten used to just seeing  _her_  altogether. She never leaves the band alone, but out of all people, she never seems to leave  _him_  alone.

The worst part is Negan’s not sure if he likes that or not.

It's only when he turns away and goes to lay on his bed despite her presence that she finally speaks.

“This is my favorite Velvet song,” she shares, surprising the man.

Negan stares up at the ceiling, spotless and smooth, blinding in it's white color, and listens intently though he's been binging this album for nearly a week.

_Candy says I've come to hate my body  
_

_And all that it requires in this world  
_

_Candy says I'd like to know completely  
_

_What others so discreetly talk about  
_

_I'm gonna watch the blue birds fly over my shoulder  
_

_I'm gonna watch them pass me by  
_

_Maybe when I'm older  
_

_What do you think I'd see if I could walk away from me?  
_

_Candy says I hate the quiet places  
_

_That cause the smallest taste of what will be  
_

_Candy says I hate the big decisions  
_

_That cause endless revisions in my mind  
_

_I'm gonna watch the blue birds fly over my shoulder  
_

_I'm gonna watch them pass me by  
_

_Maybe when I'm older  
_

_What do you think I'd see if I could walk away from me?_

His undivided attention towards the song falters when a flash goes off, and he looks to see Alpha standing near his side, towering over him with the camera pressed to her eye.

He should be used to it by now, it's her job to take pictures of them, but there's something about it that he still cannot grasp.

“Is that the only reason you came here?” Negan asks, gesturing towards her camera that she holds with gentle fingers, his voice indifferent.

“No,” she answers honestly, “it wasn't even  _the_ reason. Just thought you made a nice picture.”

Negan scoffs, but it's a mild, intrigued sound, and in no way condescending.

“So what was the reason?”

“I came to show you some ideas I had for the album cover, or maybe even the band logo,” she answers, and Negan watches as she digs through the pockets of the baggy jeans she's wearing, “they're not much, they're sketches, but it's just an idea.”

She pulls out a folded piece of paper and hands it to Negan.

He takes it and sits up, unraveling it only to see multiple drawings of a single blue eye, done haphazardly in a way that tells him she'd drawn it quickly in an attempt to fully capture an idea before it fled from her head. That alone makes Negan like it.

That, and because it reminds him of Rick. If he didn't know any better, he'd think Alpha did this on purpose, that she had a specific intent behind her art.

“Beth has those crazy blue eyes. They really drawn you in,” she explains, watching over Negan's shoulder as he examines her work, “I think she's a badass. She’s what makes the band special, and I wanted something that immortalized that without attaching her to it.”

A hundred gazillion fucking people with blue eyes on the planet and you show Negan one drawing of said blue eyes and he immediately assumes Rick.

 _Pathetic,_ he thinks.

He hands the paper back to her, feeling a little aggravated with himself, “It’s fuckin’ nice and all, but don't you think you should show that shit to Beth and not me?”

“She's a little busy with Daryl right now,” Alpha says suggestively, before adding, “Besides, you're kinda the leader of this band. Made sense to run this idea by you first.”

“I'm no damn leader, that's for fuckin’ sure,” Negan says, lying back down and resting his arms behind his head, returning his gaze to the ceiling, “If I were the leader you'd all be pissin’ your fuckin’ pants. It'd be fuckin' pee-pee pants city in this goddamn mansion… I'm just the guitar player.”

Alpha goes to lay beside him on his lumpy mattress, needing no invitation.

Negan lets her, but doesn't bother sparing her a glance.

Things are silent, but not awkward, just observant.

Negan realizes this is the first time he's had someone who's as good as a stranger in his bed with no intention of fucking them.

When he feels her hand smoothing up and down his thigh his dick proves no interest.

He looks down at her motions, at her fingernails- all trimmed short except for the one on the pinky finger, which runs long and pointy, scraping against his dark denim.

Negan knows why it's that way; he's seen many pictures from the seventies of classy, snow snorting ladies proudly sporting their coke nail- and that's what peaks his interest in Alpha, but not in a physical way.

“I'm not looking for anything right now,” he says, when her hand travels a little too high, “Not a girlfriend, or a boyfriend, or a quick fuck. Lord knows I've had enough quick fucks to last me the rest of this year. My main priority right now is the music, nothing else.”

Her hand stills as she listens to him speak, resting beside his dormant cock.

“I like you,” Negan continues, even though those words feel meager on his tongue, like they don't explain the half, “it’s not physical or romantic or anything like that. I don't even fucking know you. You take pictures of me and I don't even fucking know you... I think it's just my self-destructive side that's attracting me to you.”

"Maybe it's the fuckin' ghost in this room possessing me or somethin'," he tacks on, only half joking. Turns out, it had been his room that was home to an unfortunate suicide. He swears he hears the ghost trying to talk to him during lonely nights, hears it's whispers between the lines of their music when they're trying to get the final mix of a song for the album.

But no one else hears them.

Alpha laughs, not offended or even the least bit disappointed. She finally moves her hand away, only to pat his shoulder in a way that's more than patronizing.

“You got any more leaf?”

Negan huffs a single laugh, “Depends. What do you got for me?”

“Well, since you denied my offer of casual sex,” she begins, reaching behind her shaved head to unclasp her necklace, “all I have to give you is this.”

She places it in his hand, and Negan studies it briefly.

A dainty, silver chain with a matching vial hanging from it.

He knows what’s in it.

_Cocaine ._

“Get to rollin’, music man.” She says, to seal the deal.

    

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading ! I hope you all enjoyed and as always, feedback and constructive criticism are more than welcome! :) <3


	6. Rick's Third Year

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs mentioned in this chapter include:  
> 'Hard Rains A-Gonna Fall' by Bob Dylan  
> 'But I Might Die Tonight' by Cat Stevens

When Rick sees it, he thinks his inebriated brain is playing tricks on him. He does a double take, blinks hard a few times as he stares down at the magazine settled easily on the rack amongst all it’s brothers and sisters, fluorescent light shining down on the glossy cover as if it’s been announced the chosen one.

He grabs the magazine off the rack as soon as it's within arms reach, holding it so close to his eyes as he examines it that the cover nearly touches his nose.

It’s Negan, on the cover of  _Rolling Stone_ , a brown-eyed girl with a shaved head accompanying him.

He looks different, Rick decides, his form much thinner and his eyes lined much heavier with black- but he doesn’t think it’s the makeup that makes them seem so dark and vacant.

When he sees how the two are posed- Negan, from the torso up, staring straight into the camera, face gaunt and mysteriously impassive while the girl with a matching look stands behind him, her arms wrapped around his middle and her chin hooked over his leather clad shoulder- a shot of jealousy (and maybe a bit of betrayal, though he knows it’s unreasonable) rips through his gut like a jagged bullet.

He figures the woman is just a model they’d hired for that specific shoot, until he reads the main headline perched beside the two:

 _‘The Woman Behind The Man in Leather: Alpha and Negan’_ and then under that  _‘Rock Files: Get To Know Negan of The Saviors’_

He ditches the candy bar he’d initially planned on buying, and puts the magazine on the counter. As soon as he’s paid for it, he’s barging out of the convenience store and settling in the backseat of Rosita’s car, ignoring the way his friends call out his name in concern.

He swallows down the lump of anguish that’s built up in his throat and flips to the pages centered around Negan and this  _Alpha_.

It’s just more pictures of them posed together, some of the photos they look like happy lovers, others they look like angsty rockstars. As much as it hurts Rick to admit it, they look cool, they look good together.

He gets to wondering if he and Negan ever looked this good together, but he forces himself to shove that thought away. That was a long time ago, and it wouldn’t be fair.

Underneath the pictures is a massive amount of tiny text: an interview, Rick assumes. He sees the italicized letters that make up the dialogue pointers of

_‘Negan:’_

_‘Alpha:’_

_‘Int.:’_

He doesn’t bother reading it, he knows it’ll do more harm than good, but he does read the excerpts that have been bolded and blown up.

_“I don’t feel the need to stick my  f*cking d*ck in her to validate our relationship. What we have is spiritual, almost. She’s my best friend.” - Negan, of The Saviors on his relationship with artist and model Alpha._

_“Living in LA my whole life, I've seen so many people that try so hard to be interesting, to stand out. Negan doesn't have to try, and meeting him when I did was a breath of fresh air.” - Alpha on meeting Negan of The Saviors when she was hired as the band's personal assistant and photographer._

Rick frowns so deep the muscles in his face can’t nearly handle it, and his lips start quivering. When his visions becomes blurry, obscured by the tears his eyes are carrying to term, he grits his teeth in anger.

Anger at himself for wanting to cry, anger at everything for leading up to this moment.

He urges the tears away immediately, grabbing the page and ripping it out of the magazine with a grunt, as if it’s the most physically demanding task in the world. He rips and rips until Negan and Alpha’s faces are nothing but shreds of paper on the floor of Rosita’s car.

Before he can question his actions, he’s turning to the page that's centered solely on the guitarist.

The tears return when he sees a picture of Beth and Negan that takes up the whole page, the two of them cheek to grinning cheek in a friendly bear hug, their eyes squinted with their smiles as they look into the camera.

He lets these tears fall this time, right onto the picture of his ex-boyfriend and his old friend.

The page next to the photo is another interview, but this one is formatted in a terse, record file style. Altogether it’s no more than two hundred words, and Rick reads it all:

_Name: Negan_

_Date of birth: Jan.17, 1992_

_Previous occupation: Cashier at a record store._

_First record ever bought: Cat Stevens ‘Tea For The Tillerman’_

_Favorite item of clothing: Rain_

_Favorite musician: Beth Greene_

_Favorite food: Cigarettes_

_Ideal night in: Listening to Jimi Hendrix, lying on my bed._

_Describe your bedroom: messy, music everywhere- on the walls and under the floorboards._

_Name the books that have most affected you: I don’t f*cking read books, I play rock and roll._

_Would you ever have cosmetic surgery: No._

_Best friends: Alpha, my band, and Gary._

_Person you most despise: I wouldn’t f*ck up this page with their name._

_Irrational fears or phobias: Losing a finger._

_Worst habit: You don’t wanna know._

_Biggest mistake: The Savior’s first album._

_Sexual fetish: Listening to the Beatles while f*cking._

_Do you believe in life after death: The only things that separates life and death at all are the words._

_Favorite Saviors track: A poem turned song Beth and I decided to call Wah Poem._

_Guiding motto: None._

_Last will and testament: None._

When he’s finished reading it, he scoffs.

There are things he’d already known, things he didn’t know, and things he knows are untrue (or at least were three years ago).

And one interviewer got that all out of Negan in a single sit-down conversation, meanwhile Rick lived with the man for five months and had to break up with him because he had fucking stopped speaking to Rick.

He turns the page one final time, and sees more pictures of Negan with The Saviors, and then Negan all by himself- all of these photos taken by Alpha, according to the fine print notation at the bottom of the page.

Though few things have changed looks-wise, Rick sees these pictures and can no longer recognize the man he fell so deeply and truly in love with.

No warmth in his eyes that are still the same whiskey shade of brown, no cheekiness in his grin that used to split from ear to ear, no bite in his smirk that used to uncover all of Rick's nerves.

He looks at these new photos and no longer feels the flushed heat of fuzziness that would travel down his core upon laying his sights on Negan. He doesn’t feel inclined to smile like he had three years ago, but inclined to cry.

So he does- he buries his face in his hand and lets himself unleash the wretched sobs that pull on his chest.

“Rick…  _Rick!"  
_

He resurfaces from his sorrows by the quick snap of Rosita's urgent voice, coming from the front seat in which she currently resides.

Tara’s at his side, trying her best to soothe him in his woes with amiable comfort and care- he hadn't noticed their return.

“Gimme that!” Rosita snatches the magazine from his hand, and then scolds him, saying, “For Christ’s sake, why did you even buy this shit? Were you even thinking??”

Rick just hiccups pathetically around his tears, “He told me his favorite food was ice cream- not  _cigarettes_ , ice cream. He- he hated cigarettes, fucking hated them!"

Rosita rolls her eyes, looking like she's about to tell Rick how pitiful he looks, but then Tara shoots her girlfriend a look that tells her that's not what he needs, so she settles for falling silent and instead going through the magazine to find what had upset Rick.

“I know, I know. It's alright, just.. don't think about him,” Tara soothes, letting Rick sob into her shoulder.

Rick wishes it was as easy as that. “I thought I was fine,” Rick whimpers indignantly, “I thought I’d already forgotten about him, I was...doing good. I  _was_ fine, I- I was there.”

Tara’s unsure of what to say to that, so she stays quiet.

Rick sniffles, “How many people have to see their ex on the cover of a magazine with another girl?” He extracts himself from Tara, shaking his head as if it'll expel all of his toxic thoughts.

He moves his gaze to watch Rosita skim through the magazine.

With his body and brain drained of emotion, utterly numb in their wake, he sees the pictures of Negan, of Negan with Alpha, of Negan with The Saviors, as what they really are at their bare minimum. 

Just pictures.

He knows they aren't just that though, that at any other moment but now they'll be something more.

He sees Negan and now notices that he has more tattoos and his hair is longer, recognizes he has new guitars and still wears the leather jacket. He sees Beth with Daryl and she looks older, wiser, and maybe a little taller. Daryl looks less afraid, though he still hides behind the hair all in his eyes.

He sees Dwight in some pictures, candid with Sherry and a giggling baby- he assumes it's their child. A small, self pitying jealousy arises in him at that.

In a flowery, sugary world, he figures that could've been him and Negan.

But it's not.

This is them now: two separate lives, continuing at paces that are the polar opposite of one another. Rick, still at home working a bum job with his father on his case day in and day out.

And Negan, living the fruitful rockstar cliche, equipped with a model girlfriend and a cover on the Rolling Stone.

“He's forgotten about me,” Rick states with nothing there to give his tone support. “How could he not?” He chuckles mirthlessly, “He’s living his fucking dream.”

Everything is stark silent as Rosita and Tara listen carefully for his next words.

“He's living his dream and... and I'm sitting here, drunk off malt liquor and fucking wasting my shitty life-”

He's interrupted by a magazine being thrown at his feet.

“ _Don't_ fucking say that,” Rosita demands, her seriousness and her irritation coming off her in potent rays, “What's so good about his life? The money? The sex? The drugs? There's nothing glorious about it, you hear me?  _Nothing, nada. ”_

Rick looks down at his feet at the magazine, at how Negan's face is warped by the way the paper is bent.

“Look at his eyes,” Rosita continues, seething, “ _Puto’s_ on more drugs than my mom was. So is his fucking friend… Next time you see him on the cover of anything it’ll be the National Inquirer, and it'll just be a little, pathetic fucking square inch hiding out in the corner, phonily mourning his death by overdose in hopes that it'll help them sell an extra copy or two.” She reaches out to tilt Rick's chin up so she can bore into his watery eyes, “He's  _nothing._ He's  _hollow_ _._  He's a fucking profit. You're better off without him and you're still fine; you always were.”

She lets go of his face and turns to start the car, pulling out of the parking lot they’re in.

Rick looks back down at the magazine again, at Negan's eyes.

_That's what the darkness was._

He feels his face contort as another wave of tears swallows him up.

This time they're silent, just a weak stream of salty water leaking from his eyes, too scared to sob and whimper and let Rosita notice him crying yet again.

He can't handle the thought of Negan dying from a drug overdose, of the man feeling like those drugs were his last resort.

They used to spend hours talking about their favorite musicians- Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix, Amy Winehouse, Kurt Cobain- whose talents had suffered under the hand of their drug habits. He remembers the both of them speaking with resentment and sorrow flooding their voices on behalf of those late artists.

Nothing is fit to describe the immense amount of pain that grabs ahold of Rick when he comes to realize that Negan could be one of those names, one of those aggravated talents.

Tara brings him back in under her shoulder, trying to offer him consolation with meaningful touches.

“You didn't have to say that, Rosita,” she says, voice not far from a whisper.

Rosita keeps her stone-like gaze on the road ahead of her, clenching her jaw mightily. There's guilt littering her face, soaking her eyes.

“I'm not going to lie to him,” she says ultimately, tone ten times softer than before, but still firm in all it carries.

-

“You snuck out…”

That's the first things Rick hears when he walks through the front door of his house. He could've climbed in through his window- he was going to initially, but after everything that had taken place that night, he found he didn't have the energy to.

“Yeah,” Rick replies tersely, still standing in front of the entrance to his house, clutching the rolled up magazine in his hand with a hardened grip, not exactly in the mood to chat with his father.

The air in the room is thick and smothering, full of tension and awkwardness.

“Because of our little fight?”

“Yeah…”

With nothing more to say, Rick makes his way to the stairs, trying desperately to evacuate. He barely has his foot on the first step when his father intervenes.

“Rick,” he calls sternly, sounding taut with his own angry, pent up breath, “Come here. I’m talking to you.”

Rick shuts his eyes in defeat, letting a quiet, grounding sigh slip from his nose in an effort to calm him down.

He trudges over to the living room where his father resides, sitting pensively in the recliner, taking the silence head on and looking wholly unrelaxed despite the half empty glass of scotch he holds with a lax grip.

Looks like he's not the only one who'd been drinking.

They look into each other's eyes, both bearing a sort of kindred fear in the shared blue hue they retain, a look of guilt and of worry that cannot be easily explained.

But it's ingrained in both of their gazes: an innate gravitation towards the toxicity of their own thoughts.

Rick looks away, and tosses the magazine onto the coffee table near his father's feet, using it as a way to show he is incapable of fighting, as a plea to his father to please be gentle with him because he cannot take much more tonight.

The elder man looks at it with distaste as he recognizes the face on the cover, not bothering to pick it up for further inspection.

“You've been drinking,” is what he decides to say to his son, “I can smell it on you.”

“You've been drinking, too,” Rick points out, like he's unfolded the depths of an unsolved mystery.

“I have,” he gives a single nod, admitting his hypocrisy.

Rick watches as he swishes the brown liquor around in his glass, the couple of ice cubes clinking around with the cycle.

He swallows, and asks, “Why?”

His father has always had a very short fuse, has always been a  _because I said so_  kind of man. Rick expects him to reject the question, to deflect it with irritation armoring his tone.

Instead he sighs in that maternal, confessionary way his Mom always does.

“I worry about you, Rick,” he professes, “Every minute of my day.”

Rick nods, sheepishly looking down at his feet. He feels nauseous, even though he didn't drink that much.

“I just want you to be stable, to be able to support yourself.”

A thoughtful pause.

“At what cost?” Rick asks quietly, and even with the small chatter of the television between them, his question is deafening.

“What more could you want other than that, Ricky? Other than security?” His voice grows in volume and frustration, but not as heavily as usual.

“I want to… I want to  _like_  what I do. I want to be happy, Dad. I want to smile everyday because of myself.. I want to grow, and- and  _live._ I don't want money to boss me around. I-I know it matters, I know money matters, but… I don't want it to be all that matters. I don't- I don't want much, just to live on my own account.”

There's so much welled up emotion saturating his words, clogging his throat, coating his tongue. It's something he's always wanted to say to his father, but never had the courage to- or the time for that matter. He'd been busy being raised by Abby, and then he'd been busy with school, and then he'd been busy with college, and then he'd been busy denying his own fear.

Now, he has more time.

A silence falls between the two of them, and then his father brings his glass to his lips. “I used to be like you when I was younger,” he finally says, “Stubborn, but patient. Worrisome, but anticipating… Now I'm just worrisome.”

“What happened?” Rick asks curiously.

His father shakes his head, offering a sad smile to nothing in particular, “I don't know... Maybe it's the human curse.”

Rick is silent.

 _Please_ _,_  he says to whoever may be listening in on his every thought,  _not me._

“Did you always want to be a cop?”

Rick watches as something like the sad part of nostalgia flickers in his father's eyes.

“What I wanted to be is besides the point,” He begins, “The point is that… somethings, as you get older, finally reveal themselves as improbable.”

Rick refuses to believe it.

“What did you want to be, Dad?” He gently presses.

“A poet.” He nearly whispers it, none of his usual manly pride clinging to the word, just a boyish fear.

Rick can't help the sad, minuscule smile that tugs so weakly at the corner of his mouth.

 _The song of the poet who died in the gutter_ _,_  he thinks, reminded of one of Bob Dylan's most gut wrenching songs.

“It didn't work out,” his father continues, voice low as he recounts, “Most things don't- at least not the way you want them to.” His gaze falls upon the magazine lying witness to their conversation, placid on the coffee table.

He picks it up gingerly, eyeing the cover with a furrowed brow as if he were reading a treacherous headline on the morning paper.

Then he looks back up at Rick, asking, “Did you think he would make it?”

Rick fumbles at the question, “I- uh, what?”

“Did you think he would make it, him and his band? Did you think he'd ever get anywhere?” He asks it as though he's trying to prove a point, no curiosity lacing his tone at all.

Rick takes only a second to answer.

“Yeah.. I did.”

And he's telling the truth.

At first, when he'd just met Negan, he was unsure, though the thought was fun to entertain. Then he'd got to listening- listening to Negan by himself and Negan with the Saviors, and he began to think that if Negan didn't make it then no one would.

A few years later, and now he's made it.

Or so it seems.

“Do you think _you'll_ make it?” Rick's father asks.

Rick gives it some thought before he answers with a meager, “I don't know.”

And that's true, too. He doesn't know a lot of things:

What he wants to be, where he wants to go, what he should be doing… the list goes on and on.

But he's made it this far by his own accord, by his own mistakes, and by his own experiences. He figures he can make it out alive.

“But I won't let myself crack,” Rick follows up with.

When a smile meets his father's lips, he's more than surprised.

“I was startin' to wonder if you had any bones in you, son,” his father laughs, “I've been waitin' to see ‘em a long time.” He lifts himself up from his chair, and heads upstairs, slapping the magazine in Rick's hands when he passes him by.

“Goodnight, son.”

“Goodnight, Dad.”

Rick goes up to his room after that, slightly bewildered by the fact he and his father actually had a civilized, heartfelt conversation.

He sets the magazine down on his dresser, next to his older photos of Negan.

When he sees the differences the years have brought upon, laid clear in front of his eyes, a stream of sadness moves throughout his chest, traveling through the main points of his body before settling awfully in his heart. But it's not as heavy as it could be, as it used to be.

Rick misses him so much, even after the spoiled patch of their relationship and all of his asshole remarks and his dipshit comments.

Even after three fucking years.

He realizes he'll always miss Negan, no matter how long they've been apart, or if they've both truly moved on, or if anything should happen to him- especially if anything should happen to him.

Because Negan was his first real love, and now Rick recognizes that all the sappy, phony shit they say about never forgetting your first love is all true.

He sends a prayer out to his lucky stars, asking for Negan to be okay.

-

After they'd returned from the trip to his parents house but before The Cavern, Rick had asked Negan to teach him how to play guitar.

Nothing backbreaking, he just wanted to know a few basics, just wanted to try something new.

Negan was nothing less of delighted when Rick had told him this, and insisted they get hands on right off the bat.

The first thing he taught Rick about the guitar was something called harmonics. He didn't explain what they were more so than show him.

“Put your finger here,” Negan had instructed, voice sweet and mild as he hovered over Rick's shoulder, guiding the boy’s finger over the metallic fret lining of a single string.

Rick complied, purposely shifting his finger so Negan would have to replace it again and again, relishing in the light touches his teachings produced.

He had never seen Negan act so serious and timid in his whole time of knowing him.

“Just lay your finger on it, don't press down.. and then pluck the string.”

Rick did as he was told, and a faint chime-like noise was the product. It made his eyes light up, the sound, the fact that he made it.

He looked up at Negan with beaming eyes as if to say _holy shit, did you just hear that?_

Negan looked back at him, looking just as invigorated, though Rick was sure Negan had heard the sound so many times before in his then eight years of playing guitar.

The harmonics, Rick found out just a moment later, are an old school way of tuning your guitar by ear.

Rick would go on practicing this technique, matching up the pitches of the bell-like noises until everything was in place. Sometimes he'd tune up Negan's guitar for him every once in awhile, and other times, when he passed by one of Negan's guitar, he'd put a finger on one of the guitars sweet spots and pluck the string, just cherishing the gentle noise that would come out.

Rick never learned anything past tuning, however, after The Cavern.

“You gotta know how to tune your guitar without a fucking tuner,” Negan had said when he first taught Rick, “You watch a video of Hendrix live at Woodstock, he didn't have a fuckin’ smartphone with a fuckin’ nifty as fuck tuning app. He had his goddamn beautiful ears and less than thirty fuckin’ seconds before the crowd started bitching at him. The goal is to be able to just fucking  _touch_  the string and know whether or not you're in tune.. But for now harmonics will have to do the trick. You just make sure the A is in tune and use that harmonic to go from there. ”

Rick had looked up at Negan, blinked twice at his mini rant, and said, “I just told you I wanna know a couple basics and you're already bringin' up Hendrix as if I’ll ever get to that level.”

Negan let out a cackle loud into Rick's ear, allowed it to dwindle down before he pressed a kiss to the boy's shoulder. “You could try, babe,” He mused.

_Try._

Now the word rings through his head.

Rick's in a thrift store with Noah and Tara, staring at a cheap acoustic guitar covered in dust as it sits in a stand, while he recalls the memory.

He gives the strings a single strum with his index finger, and they moan out a dissonant breath.

It's out of tune.

-

“Y'all this place is boring, why’d you bring me here?” Noah whines, following behind Rick and Tara as they survey all that their local thrift shop has to offer, “It’s like you took me to my grandma’s attic to go shopping.”

“You  _asked_ to come, Noah, we didn't bring you here,” Tara points at, voice carrying an absent quality as she eyes an odd looking mini clog shoe, “And this place is freakin’ called Granny's Attic for a damn reason.”

“I thought it would be cool!” Noah defends himself, “But you gotta do so much looking in here, it's so cluttered. You know, I bet they make it so messy on purpose, so you walk into something and it drops and you crack some shit that actually ends up being like a hundred dollars and you gotta buy it-  _Oh shit! They got socker boppers?? How much??”_

Rick grabs the box, searching for a tag or a sticker, “Three dollars.”

“Three Dollars??” Noah guffaws, eyes widening crazily, “I ain't got that kinda money! See, can't buy shit here!”

“They're like ten dollars at Target, Noah,” Tara reasons.

Noah looks completely dazed by that information, “Oh my god… I need to sit down.. I'm so broke.” He sits down on an empty patch of flooring next to a long, plastic table.

Tara snorts, leaning down to shove his head, “I'll buy you the socker boppers, man.”

Rick laughs too, “Tara and I will half it … It's a big investment.”

Noah presses his lips together, nodding emotionally, “I love you guys.” He stays on the floor awhile more, watching as his friends venture further into the depths of the store, not yet ready to shadow them again.

He's about to get up when he notices crates underneath the table, draped by the hideously homemade tablecloth.

They're heavy, but Noah pulls them out, revealing records upon records, covered in dust and cobwebs.

“Hey Rick!” He calls out loudly, though the boy isn't far, “They got those big CDs you like!”

Rick whips his head in Noah's direction, face lighting up when he lays eyes on the so-called big CDs.

Immediately he goes to check out the stash, getting on his knees and moving the tablecloth out of the way.

His fingers become littered with dust as he flips through the selection at hand, puffs of the tiny, lung-filling particles pushed to float slowly in the air, rays of sun holding them captive in a stand still.

Noah sneezes like six times in a row, to which Tara says ‘bless you’ six times in a row.

Rick, like the dust in the sun rays, is too busy being held captive to the records in the crate to be so polite.

There's so much good music in there: he finds some Lou Reed (sans The Velvet Underground), some James Taylor, a Bee Gees Live album, and even some Radiohead.

But among all these treasures, the one that stands out the most is a record he had once been very well acquainted with.

It's Cat Steven’s _Tea For The Tillerman,_ Negan's favorite.

Rick remembers the magazine article, remembers the many times he'd walk into Negan's room at their old apartment tofind him lying on the floor sulking into the wood as he let himself bathe in the music, remembers how Rick himself had grown to dislike that album because Negan just played it so damn much.

But now, he looks at it, and he can't help but smile.

He runs his fingers across the cover, presses his nose to the aged record sleeve to smell the familiar scent of old cardboard and vintage vinyl.

It's almost like it's the exact same copy Negan had, though he knows it's not.

Still he flips it to the back to make sure- Negan was always one to leave personal notes on his records.

He finds no familiar handwriting, no expletives scrawled out in pen or sharpie, but he does find something that moves him to his very core, however.

On the back of the record, stamped over the words of his favorite song on the album,  _But I Might Die Tonight,_ is a sticker in it's early stages of the peeling process.

 _‘Greetings from Austin! We hope to see you soon!’_ It reads in big, bubble letters, over a colorful, Texas shaped outline.

When Rick sees it, he knows he's got to go back as soon as he can.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading, I hope you enjoyed! As always, feedback and constructive criticism are more than welcome. :) <333  
> Fun fact, this story was actually supposed to be titled 'The song of the Poet who died in the gutter' but i thought it was too long and when i discovered the song this story actually is named after, I thought it fit the idea of what I wanted this story to be about much better than the bob dylan song.


	7. Negan's Third Year

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: HARD/HEAVY DRUG USE MENTIONED (it's not too descriptive or in depth, but I'm sure for some it may be so please proceed with caution.)  
> Songs mentioned in this chapter include:  
> 'Hallelujah' by Jeff Buckley (its more of a compilation of improvised lyrics he's sung for that song, but yeah)

It started with the coke.

He didn’t do it much, usually only when he and Alpha were alone, but he wound up liking it. It made him funner, he thinks, it made him wanna go out and party and enjoy the success their sophomore album had brought them. Sometimes, most of the time, it made that success a lot easier to cope with, too.

He started fucking strangers again, strangers who knew his name now, knew about The Saviors and their music, etcetera, etcetera.

In the beginning, the coke made it a lot easier for his dick to get hard, and with the album being done, he thought he deserved a little loving.

To him, fucking was good no matter what, but fucking on coke was even better. He couldn’t get enough.

But then this social thing, this just for fun thing, became a habit. He started doing it everyday, fucking and snorting, and then he started snorting so much on a regular basis he couldn't get his dick up, but by then he didn’t care about the sex anymore. He just wanted a bigger high.

That’s when Alpha told him about shooting coke instead of snorting it.

She helped him with his first intravenous use, wrapped the belt around his arm and stuck the needle into his vein.

It was intense, immediate- exactly what he wanted. He remembers his ears ringing, whistling, like a kettle on the stove. Alpha had been saying something to him, but he couldn’t hear it over the ringing, and then he saw her laughing while his heart began beating a hundred miles a minute, but he wasn’t scared.

He was the exact opposite. He felt like he could look fear right in the eyes, and tear it down with the wit that sharpened his coke-numb tongue.

That high lasted about thirty seconds, or at least that’s what Alpha told him, and when it was done, he felt weak and utterly cranky.

Until the next shot, which usually followed soon after the first.

Once that had been discovered, coke was not a social thing anymore. _He_ was not social. All he wanted to do was stay in his room and shoot coke.

He spent more time with Alpha. She scored for him, taught him how to find veins, how to prepare a rig. She was his drug buddy- his mentor, for lack of a better word.

They spent a lot of time and money looking for the perfect hit, one that would last longer than just a few magnificent, orgasmic seconds and not be such a fucking drag to come down off of.

“You shoot the coke first,” Alpha instructed as Negan watched the flame lick underneath the silver of the spoon, “Then you shoot the dope… perfect high, like going all the way to Heaven, then coming right back down to Earth on a slow, plastic slide.”

He took the needle from her, put it in his vein. Rinse, repeat, but the second shot was a different high.

Fluttery and rapid,

Then gooey and dripping, sinking right into the floor of his LA apartment.

The Rockstar’s cocktail, Alpha called it, self served.

His arms were becoming littered with tracks, but he didn’t care. His jacket covered them up.

-

Negan thought he was pretty good at hiding his drug use, but everyone knew.

Daryl knew: he had witnessed first hand what a person shooting speedballs acted like; he had a troubled childhood.

So that means Beth knew, which means Dwight knew.

They just didn’t want to believe that such a thing was going on during the peak of their success. It seemed unfair to them, they all worked so hard to get where they were.

Therefore, they swept it under the rug, excusing Negan’s uncharacteristically reclusive behavior as a product of his newfound relationship with Alpha.

Of course it technically was, but not in the simplest of ways.

-

The Saviors tour the world promoting their sophomore album, their music granting them the beautiful privilege of getting to see everything the world has to offer.

Other than the playing live part, Negan finds the whole ordeal to be a hassle. Moving quickly from one destination to another meant having to find new dealers, not knowing whether they’ve got good shit or not.

Alpha, however, is experienced with these kinds of things, and knows a good score from a bad one.

Negan stays by her side, but not just because of that. He feels like she’s the only person who gets him now. He can’t relate to his own band members anymore, only when they’re playing music- they still have that undeniable chemistry keeping them together.

But while his bandmates are out during the day, sight seeing and frolicking, he’s in a hotel room with Alpha getting high, not knowing day from night until he’s told he has to get ready for a show- then he knows it’s nighttime, usually around 7pm.

It becomes a cycle: settle into the new city they’ve flown into, shoot up in the hotel room with Alpha until it’s time for the next show (if there’s no show that day, they stay in the room and they paint, or they take pictures, or they try to keep each other from overdosing, and the cycle ends there), play the show, go back to the hotel, shoot up, listen to music, maybe sleep.

Occasionally, there’ll be an interview or a photoshoot. He despises those; they always twist what he says, always try to tend to the fire that is the roaring flame of rumors.

But it’s all for the money, he tells himself (he never thought one day that would be a comforting reminder to him), it all goes to the next fix.

Everything is smooth until one day the cycle gets an unexpected spin.

They're in Stockholm, he thinks, he's not so sure, because the day is going as planned- drug binging and isolationism, drawing on the walls of the hotel room with black crayon while he's riding out the short woes of his coke high with Alpha- until they have to get ready for tonight's gig and he’s shooting up his final shot of dope- it's become a pre-show ritual of sorts.

Ten minutes until they're on the stage and he remembers thinking, _Wow, that was a good fucking hit_ , and feeling accomplished and content- and possibly a little drowsy-knowing he’s finally found his perfect dosage.

Then the next thing he knows he’s waking up on the floor, his guitar and his leather jacket thrown across the room, his cheek stinging from a fresh slap and his chest aching terribly, like he’d been punched.

Alpha’s on her knees by his side, looking down at the floor, panicked and distraught, and Beth’s crying in the corner of the room, Daryl trying his best to console her while Dwight and Sherry try to calm their baby who’s crying even harder than Beth, the little girl’s toddler-born shrieks splitting the air in the room, making his head ache and throb.

“What the fuck is going on?” He asks Alpha, his voice sounding terribly hoarse to his own ears.

“You overdosed,” is all she says, not looking at him, eyes settled on the puncture wounds on his arms and how rings of blue and purple wrap themselves around the tracks.

That’s when he sees the Narcan and the needle in her bruised hands, and the fresh mark in his arm that's trickling blood.

She saved him.

Negan gets up from the ground on two wobbly feet, grabs his guitar and his jacket.

He gives it a minute, then says, “Let’s get this fucking show on the road,” demanding everyone's attention.

They all look at him differently now, like he's fragile, but still they comply.

Everyone manages to go on with the show, putting on a mask of false emotional portrayal and playing the best show they’ve had in their career so far.

Something about a near death experience really lights a fire under people’s asses.

-

“What the _FUCK_ is wrong with you, huh?! Who the _FUCK_ do you think you are stickin’ a needle in your vein, getting fuckin’ high everyday?”

That's the first thing Beth says to him only seconds after they've gotten off the stage. Negan pays her no mind, just keeps on walking with Alpha under his arm, flipping her the bird as he strolls off so nonchalantly.

 _“Take off your fucking jacket!”_ She yells, catching up to him with a fiery pace.

She manages to get her hand around his arm, pulling it only suggestively, but still he winces, hissing at the pain that immediately hits him,  and stops clear in his tracks.

 _“Don't fucking grab me!”_ He spits, turning to face Beth before he's shoving the girl to the ground, acting on pure, angry impulse.

If everyone hadn't been watching their altercation, they surely are now.

Daryl jumps in immediately, going to the girl's side. He says something to Negan along the lines of _‘touch her like that again and I'll kill you’_ but Negan pays him no mind. He's focused on the girl, focused on the anger in his body that is now being replaced with shame.

Beth looks up at him from her place on the ground with wet eyes, soaked blue and full of betrayal.

For a second he feels something other than the habitual craving for shooting his body full of chemicals.

He feels guilty.

The girl shakes her head in disbelief, “Who do you think you are?” She asks again, softer, “You're not Negan… You're a fuckin’ junkie.”

Negan should leave, he knows he should, but he also knows he deserves the biting words Beth is about to spew.

“What would he think?” Beth asks, but she's not looking for an answer, just digging for his weakness, “What would he think if he could see you now?”

Negan knows who _he_ is.

 _He_ who is inescapable, no matter how great his high is or how long it lasts.

“Who am I kiddin’?” Beth scoffs, so righteous and vindictive. Even from her place on the dirty floor she somehow towers over Negan, “You probably would've dragged him down with you… He's lucky he got away when he did.”

Beth is just repeating to him everything that's been eating up at his own brain, everything he's been using to tear himself down these past few years- but still, hearing it from someone else, from a friend, it's defeating and it's humiliating.

 _“Fuck you,”_ Negan spits, mouth pursed in an angry pucker, quivering with the intensity of his emotions. Beth doesn’t wince or flinch. “ _Fuck you_ ,” he repeats, because it's all he has, and then once more, roaring it this time, “ _FUCK YOU!_ ”

He doesn't realize he'd lurched forward until he feels Alpha holding him back with a thin forearm pressed to his weakling chest.

“ _Don't_ talk about Rick! You didn't know him like I did, you _fucking little kid!_ He has nothing to do with this! _Nothing_ , you hear me?! _NOTHING!”_ With each yelling phrase he becomes all the more livid, emotions out of whack and inhibitions close to none.

Alpha bones cannot handle the fury unleashing from the man, and so Gary and Dwight have to hold him back and drag him away from the ever growing tension of the scene.

When she tries to intervene, keeping her hand entangled with Negan's, having grown as attached to the guitarist as he has her, Gary cuts in.

“ _Get_ _out of here_ ,” he demands firmly, each word clear and thick with annoyance, “I’ll talk to you later.”

Alpha looks to Negan apprehensively, begging him to say something that would offset Gary’s commands, but Negan is not paying attention to her.

He's too busy glaring at Beth, who's glaring back at him, the intensity of her blue eyes unwavering and tenacious.

But there's a rough concern to her gaze, while Negan's is all but hollow and ill-sourced.

-

“Where are you taking me?” Negan asks Dwight as he sits in the backseat of an all black, discrete car parked outside the back exit of the venue.

“We’re going back to the hotel,” Dwight answers numbly from the passenger's side, “Or at least I think we are, I don't know. We’ll find out when Gary gets here.”

“Where's Alpha?” He asks immediately after Dwight has finished speaking, not having retained any of the bassists words apart from his first sentence, “Where is she?”

“...Gary's taking care of her.”

“I need to go find her-”

“ _No,_ you don't,” Dwight says tiredly, pointedly.

The blond man has never raised his voice before, never used it harshly- especially not at Negan- so his tone alone throws Negan off.

“You think this was her fault? You think she forced the needle on me?” His voice is so condescending and heartless, brutally cutting because he wants to get what he wants, “Anything she did it's because I asked her to. It's all me, not her,  _me._ Don't fucking do anything to _her.”_

“We fucking know it's not her fault,” Dwight responds, but he says the words like he's trying to convince himself, “but she's your main source. We can't have you around her.”

“Can't have me around her?... Fuck that..” Negan mutters it underneath his breath like he can't fathom it, reaching for the handle of the car door just as Dwight moves to lock it. “Open the fucking door, Dwight.”

“Negan, I’m not-”

“ _Open the door-”_

_“No.”_

He reaches for the lock, hand fumbling and slipping at the perplexity of its makeup. It must be childproof or some shit.

“ _FUCK YOU, DWIGHT! FUCK YOU!”_

He punches the window out of frustration, the impact of his fist doing nothing against the thick glass.

“I'll fucking get to her,” Negan says to Dwight with an angered conviction, “You motherfuckers can't fucking stop me no matter what you do.. Lock my fucking door, keep Alpha in a fucking vault or whatever the fuck you plan on doing. You can't fucking fix me.”

Dwight goes silent, cutting off their conversation.

When Gary finally arrives, he says nothing, doesn't spare either of them a glance. He just drives.

-

When they get back to the hotel, Negan finds out Alpha has been fired and is on a flight back to Los Angeles _(“You cheap dick motherfuckers, fire_ me! _Fuck you entitled fuckin’ dick sucking pricks, taking that poor girl out of a job, leaving her on her fucking own- Why didn't you fire me? Oh yeah! Cause Warner doesn't fucking care if I'm fucked up on dope or not, I'm making them a fucking assload of fucking money! I forgot I'm the fucking white Hendrix!! I’m the brunette, brown eyed Kurt Cobain!! FIRE ME, YOU SORRY SHITS!”)_ and that he's not allowed a hotel room to himself anymore.

To top it all off- of all the people who could babysit his twenty eight year old ass- Beth was the one they decided on pairing him with, saying she was the only one who could handle him.

It's true, fucking hell, it's true as shit and that's why Negan is so opposed to it.

She won't let him gets what he wants, and right now, what he wants is to nod the hell off on some good fucking dope. It’s been about three hours since his last hit and he’s already beginning to feel the effects of his last dose wearing off.

Alpha said that’s the last thing he should ever want to happen, that being off dope for too long makes you feel worse than shit. With that thought filling his mind, he’s not looking forward to whatever is to come, and he knows he needs a fix before his body starts to act up.

He just doesn’t know how he’ll get it.

Gary walks him up to his new hotel room to make sure he actually gets there. “You better straighten up, bro. You’re better than this,” he says curtly, looking Negan straight in the eye with his gaze that is so deep of a brown it almost shines black.

Negan scoffs in return, “Yeah, alright.” He knows he’s not better than this- whatever this could be.

He’s worse than this… way worse.

Either way, he enters the room with his suitcase dragging alongside of him, making his gait lopsided.

The first thing he sees is Beth, sitting on one of the plush, queen sized beds with a look of confliction riddling her young, lineless face as she takes in his presence.

She was his best friend, once upon a time. Now she’s something else, something that drifted away from him.

Or maybe he drifted away from her… That’s probably more like it. Beth’s still the same. She’s gone through so much, before, during, and after the success of The Saviors, and she’s still the same. Negan envies that.

“I’m sorry,” Beth says eventually, still looking right into him. At his form, and into his eyes, interchangeably. “I’m really sorry.”

Negan turns to settle his stuff onto his own bed. “Don’t be. I know you’re only sorry that you hurt me, not sorry that you said it.”

“Yeah,” Beth says, voice small and hush.

“So what’s this?” Negan plops down into the plush quicksand of the bed, it swallows him up by the second, “Some sort of makeshift rehab? Gonna play nurse Beth while the whole band and Gary force me to quit cold fuckin' turkey?”

Beth eyes him incredulously, like he can’t believe his banter at this moment. Really, what did she expect?

“You almost _died_ Negan,” she states like she’s trying to shake him out of it, blue eyes welling up with tears again as she says it, “You _were_ dead! For ten fucking minutes!” She swallows harshly, her throat bobbing with the motion, “I thought you were gone!”

“I’m like a fucking cat, Beth, I’ve got nine fucking lives. That was just one of ‘em. No reason to fuckin’ cry,” he tries to say it tenderly, tries to make it comforting for the girl, but it ends up lost in the mix.

“Do you even hear yourself, for fuck’s sake?”

Negan looks down at his feet.

His boots are raggedy and worn, leather soft and wrinkled and lightened by the sun. He's had these boots for years and hasn't had the heart to get rid of them and buy a new pair.

“You’ve got a great fucking life. You’re healthy, you’re young, you’re successful. We’re living the fucking dream right now, Negan, and this is only the beginning for us… What more could you want?”

Negan weighs her words over in his head. All she’s saying is true, once again. He truly has got it all.

Everything he wanted since he was seventeen years old, he’s got it now, and more. But now that it's like putty in his hands, all those dreams and aspirations seem a lot better when that's all they were, when they were all just daydreams to get him through a lonely time. 

There’s so many strings attached to everything now. It’s not just about music, being a rockstar- even though that’s what he’d hoped it would be.

It's about music, yeah, but in a hollow sense. It's insincere- even when the music is sincere, because they're forced to look beyond their natural creativity and see their music- the art they've created that is a bi-product of their lives and their fucking souls- as a fucking commercial item, and as a profit.

This whole industry is very jaded, and maybe it's turned him that way, too, because now he can't see the good in all their success.

Using the word success to describe his life seems phony.

“Is this it?” He asks Beth after a while, “Money, fame, beautiful places… beautiful faces.. It’s all the same everywhere you go. People kiss your asses, and they think you’re some kind of God. Or they fucking hate you for the wrong reasons. Or they have power over you and they tell you what to do- like fucking Warner. They don’t know who you really are, and they don't really fucking care. You're a pawn to them or you're an idol- a fucking fantasy. You ride in fancy cars and sleep in big, fancy hotels with soft beds- like this one. You play venue after venue after venue and they dream of being like you because they don't really know what it's fucking like… I was like that. I used to idolize people like me.”

He sighs, shaking his head warily, “It just gets to be too fucking much. I mean, It’s all the same everywhere. At least when I was nobody I was fucking happy.” His mouth twists terribly as he recalls life in Austin, life as a teenager and a small child back in Washington.

He can almost smell the inside of the record store, of he and Rick's apartment flooded with the stench of sex after a marathon of making love.

He goes deeper and he remembers Lucille and all her boldness, taking his life by storm.

He doesn't even know how many years it's been since she died- ten, eleven?- he can't remember.

Boy, if she could see him right now, she'd chew him the fuck out and then spit in his face for letting himself be so weak. He'd let her do it, too.

He remembers his parents, every baseball game, every ‘I’m proud of you, son’.

What do those mean now? Would they take all those words back if they could see him now?

He knows they would..

Christ, when did he become such a fucking sob story?

“..People think ordinary life is so fucking boring… but _this_ is boring. This is a fucking cycle. It’s so fucking robotic. At least ordinary life has character to it. Now I have to fuckin’ shoot dope just to feel like life is beautiful again.”

“There's beauty in this life,” Beth argues, “You just have to look for it.. and when you find it, you gotta hold onto it.”

In his philosophic mood, Negan considers that before he asks, curiously, hopefully, “What's your beauty?”

Beth shakes her head slowly, so slowly, “Sometimes I don't even know. I just have to trust it's there. Other times, when I'm really searchin’, I realize life itself is the beauty. Just look at what happened to the four of us, before and after all of this. My mama died and me and Maggie and my Daddy moved to Austin.. and I found you and Dwight and Rick and _Daryl_ … and Maggie found Glenn… I'm a lucky girl, maybe not in all circumstances, but in most, I am, and when I take a step back, my life has been one beautiful ride.”

In his time, he's met the two loves of his life, and had them both leave in one way or another. He's had his parents reject him and his dreams- dreams that he held onto like they were the last thing on earth, because they were.

And after he gave up everything for those dreams, they came back and bit him in the ass.

“I haven't been as fuckin’ fortunate,” Negan comments.

“Sure you have... There's always somethin’, even if it's just one thing that makes life worthwhile. Sometimes it's hard to find.. and even if you find it, sometimes it's hard to have faith in it.”

Negan thinks for a long moment, then figures if there's one thing that has made his life worthwhile, it's love.

From the love he shared with Lucille when he was seventeen that gave birth to his love for music, to the love he has for his friends and his bandmates that shared the same dreams with him, to the love Rick had once given him so undoubtedly and supportively that Negan had tried and failed to return.

Even though most of those things came and went, he thinks they've made life worth it.

Now, as his love for music slowly goes sour and his friends begin to resent him for spoiling the fruits of their success, he has next to nothing.

“You and Alpha,” Beth begins, building the foundation to a long awaited question, “what were you two?”

Negan sighs. He's gonna miss that girl. He knows he'll see her soon, though.

“We were close… We weren't together, and we weren't fucking but we weren't exactly friends either- that word seems too… I don't know, incompetent I guess. I don't know a lot about her, but I think we’ve got the same shitty as fuck, destructive as fuck, anguished parts in our fucked up souls. I think that’s why we attracted each other.”

Beth hmphs, “Misery loves company.”

Negan nods.

The word misery reminds him of what's to come for him potentially, if he does not get a shot soon- and with his stash having been demolished and his ass being babysat, he doesn't think he'll be getting one anytime soon.

“Beth,” he says hesitantly, “I'm gonna get real fucking bad soon. Like, in a few hours. I'm gonna start shaking and shitting and sweating without my fuckin’ say so and it's gonna last a good damn while… or at least that's what Alpha told me, and I'm fucking scared to shit.”

After processing what Negan's said, and knowing she'll have to deal with him as he goes through it, Beth looks scared herself.

“It's alright,” Beth proposes, “You'll get through it. I’m gonna help you get through it.”

“Okay,” Negan nods, trusting her.

“Just get comfortable… maybe you can sleep through it.”

From what Alpha has told him, Negan knows that won't be the case, but he decides he should try to get some sleep either way.

Overdosing and being dead for ten minutes and then being resuscitated by someone's fist banging on his chest and some anti-drug running through his veins really does a number on one's physical energy.

He strips himself of his jacket and his t-shirt, his bruised chest aching with every move he makes.

“Those are… fuckin’ gnarly,” Beth says, and Negan looks up to see her shaken gaze on his arms, studying his tracks.

He takes it she doesn't mean gnarly in a good way.

“Take a picture, it’ll fuckin’ last longer,” he quips as he's taking off his boots and socks, hoping she doesn't see the matching tracks on his feet and his ankles.

If she does, she doesn't say anything.

“Get some sleep,” she says eventually, “I’ll be awake if you need me.”

-

Negan wakes up just a few hours later to the sounds of Beth singing lightly.

Once he's regained consciousness, he notices an intense, nearly painful, tingling sensation stemming all the way from his calves and running up to the hinges of his hips.

He rolls over to the other side of the bed, only to see the damp, sweaty print he’d left behind. He feels the beads of sweat dripping from his scalp, running down his neck and back like he's standing underneath a shower’s spray.

But he doesn't understand why he's sweating.

He's cold, he's so fucking cold he can feel his body shivering and his teeth chattering lightly.

A strike of fear creeps into his chest, feeding his tremors. He knows it's only going to get worse as time trudges on, and he's not so sure if he'll be able to get out of this, if he'll be able to get out of this hotel room to get to the remedy he wants. It's all he can think about, all he's been thinking about since he walked into this room.

He pulls the covers up to his chin, furrows deeper into them until every crevice of his damp, cold skin is swaddled completely.

Time will drag, he knows. It's going to feel like years before he can get his hands on something to offset his withdrawal.

But he knows he’ll find a way.

So he hushes the panicked thoughts running wild in his head, and tries to let Beth's voice lull him to sleep as she croons.

_It's not Jesus_

_It's not God_

_It's not the bottle_

_It's not his face, or his touch_

_It's not the needle, or the vial_

_It's not the powder, or the evenings_

_With strangers, and there are many_

_So what's the answer?_

_Thinking back to the time when you were together_

_So honest_

_So open_

_So perfect, and adored._

_No more, no more._

_Hallelujah, baby, until you are nothing._

_Hallelujah, baby, until he is everywhere._

_Hallelujah, until together you are somewhere._

In the end, her voice haunts him long into the night.

-

Just as he'd expected, Negan gets his fix, three days later when the cries of his aching bones and his bruised muscles and his agitated mind and soul have torn him down from the inside out.

He sneaks out in the middle of the night when Beth is asleep, when the majority of the hotel is asleep. His shirt is covered in snot and vomit, as are his jeans, and his hair is sweaty and unwashed and he hurts so, so much- physically and mentally- but he musters up the might to get out of bed and devise a plan, tells himself it'll all be worth it.

He roams the streets of the country he knows not the name of like he's the living dead, blindly asking around for where he could find a good score.

It takes a while, with the barriers of language and what not, but eventually he gets somewhere, he gets something.

It's the first time he's scored without the help of Alpha, and he feels something along the lines of accomplishment.

He shoots up for the first time in three days in an alleyway that has an unrelenting stench of danger and rotting garbage.

When the needle sinks in, when he injects himself full of the juice, it's euphoria, it's like sex.

It's better than sex.

His pain leaves him instantly, his worries dissolve- and he barely has half of the dose in.

When it's all in, he sinks into the cobblestone underneath him, feeling like just a pair of eyes, pushing their way further in the ground, sinking deeper and deeper until he discovers the depths of the world.

His vision blurs around the edges, his breathing slows, as does his heart.

A white, haziness censors all the dark colors of the night, consuming his sight.

He hears the familiar clicking of boots against the hard ground,  coming closer and closer to him in their relaxed, casual gait

A small but relaxed smile finds it's way to his lips and he laughs a light laugh that he can't even hear. Still he ends up choking on it.

“Hey…” a warm voice calls to him, gentle but accusing. He knows who the voice belongs to, he knows the owner of the voice is standing right over him- but it isn't him. It's a ghost, a spirit, an apparition. “Don't go to sleep, baby. Stay here... with me.”

“Okay,” He whispers, trying to reach for the boy who feels only inches away, but his hands find nothing but humid air. He tries to look at the boy, but the white cloudiness in his eyes only smudges his view further. “I'm tired, but okay.”

He says that, but still the darkness rolls over him inevitably, just a few seconds after his words hit the air.

-

Negan wakes up laid out in the backseat of a moving car, the same car that had lead him back to the hotel without Alpha that fateful night just a few days ago.

He sits up, sees Beth staring at him disapprovingly from the passenger's side, turned in her seat just to do so.

Gary is driving.

“You've got seven lives now,” She informs him, before she finally turns around in her seat, facing forward.

They get back to the hotel in silence.

Negan's thankful for it, mostly because he doesn't feel like explaining himself, or apologizing, or whatever. He's not sorry for anything.

Beth had gone off to Daryl's room and Negan's just about to enter the room he shared with the girl, happy to have some time to himself, when Gary stops him with a rough hand on his shoulder, forcing him to turn around.

“Empty your pockets,” He demands, voice so taut his jaw clenches with it.

Negan rolls his eyes weakly, “I don't fucking have anything on me, alright? I just wanna fuckin’ sleep, man-”

“Empty your pockets, _now.”_

Negan sighs and empties the pockets of his jeans:

Empty.

Then the pockets of his jacket:

A tiny baggy that's mostly empty, save for the dusty remnants of his already used hit.

Gary takes it from his hand, saying, “You'd probably scrape this clean the second any one of us lets our guard down.”

“You know me so fucking well, Gary,” he quips sarcastically, fruitful in its purpose of pissing Gary off even more so.

“Listen,” he huffs, face inching closer towards Negan's in a portrayal of his steady seeping irritation, “you got two fucking choices, man, you either get yourself clean- we can take you anywhere you want to go, anywhere in this damn world just so you can detox and get some professional help. Cause Lord fucking knows that's what you need-”

Negan cuts him off, because that's not gonna happen. He has no desire to quit. “And what's the second choice?”

Gary sighs deeply, his anger dissipating only to be replaced with remorse, “You can either get help… or you're out of the band.”

Negan huffs a laugh, singular and careless. He didn't think the choice would be this easy.

“I guess I'm outta the fuckin’ band.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading! This chapter was kind of really dark and negative and I'm sorry about that but a writers gotta do what a writers gotta do...  
> Brighter times are ahead, my friends :)  
> I love you all and as always, feedback and constructive criticism are more than welcome!


	8. Rick's Fourth Year

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs mentioned in this chapter include:  
> 'Evil Ways' by Santana  
> 'A Whiter Shade of Pale' by Procol Harum  
> 'These Days' By Nico

There’s a gentle hand on Rick’s back, smoothing over the expanse of his pale and naked skin, running all the way down the mounds of his ass and the firmness of the back of his thighs.

Rick bites into his pillow, breathing out hot and moist into the clean cotton as he thrusts his hips messily into the ruffled sheets beneath him, the gentle caressing of the hands mocking the frazzled state of his body's aching need.

“Touch me,” he gasps, writhing into the warm palms, wishing them to venture and stroke much more tender areas as his impatience grows with every ticking second, “Touch me, baby, _please_ , just touch me. I want you to touch me so bad.”

“I am,” Negan drawls, voice deep and nearly unprecedented to Rick's ears, hands squeezing his flesh harder until the blush in his skin tone lessens to a colorless white before it blossoms back into his standard sex-flushed red as the man's grip relents.

Rick arches his back just as Negan’s rough palms rub his skin calm again, lingering in the muscle that dips over his spine, “Turn me over and touch me right,” he demands, voice gruff and breathless, muffled by fabric.

“You sure about that, baby?” Negan asks; the question doesn’t sound teasing, but hesitant and shy, uncharacteristically so.

Rick, too anxious and desperate beneath the man to read too much into it, nods his head fervently, groaning, “Yes, _please_ , yes.”

Negan removes himself off of Rick, shifting the boy's body and bringing him to lie on his back.

That’s when Rick sees it, once his vision has steadied, focusing on his long lost lover: sores riddling the once healthy and bright skin of Negan’s face, now turned pale and retaining a gray dullness that resembles death- some of the spots are scarred and some are fresh, oozing a gorish liquid that is an indiscernible shade of infection.

Rick feels his breath hitch in his chest, trying to find Negan underneath the spots and the scars. But try as he might, Rick can't find the picture of a man flushed and tanned so idyllically by the Texas sun, as he stares at his current form before him.

His eyes travel to Negan's body, naked and frail- his thin skin littered with track marks that have abscessed, puncture wounds deep and glistening, the flesh around it decayed to a deathly black shade, all of his tattoos disrupted by the evil wounds.

Negan had always been rather stocky, despite his great height. He was wide shoulders and a broad chest with a thick stomach, all supported by firm thighs and calves dressed in lean muscle. But now he’s so thin. He’s a skeleton, almost, from the form of his long, emaciated limbs- length accentuated by the lack of girth- to the ribs he can see poking out from his torso, and his sunken in stomach.

Further down his torso, traveling down his groin, Rick’s eyes catch sight of Negan's dick, shriveled up to nothing, looking like a dead worm, or like it can no longer be used.

Seeing Negan now, like this, is odd. It's… baffling. It mixes his head up if he ponders on it too long. It's just a body, he tries to tell himself, not actually him, but the state of his body makes Rick think if it's still the same man inside- soulfully speaking, mentally speaking.

His whole being is a caricature- a stranger- and Rick feels himself shrink everywhere, feels himself cave in on himself as he tucks his knees into his chest and his face into his knees, feeling uncomfortably naked now as Negan stands before him at the foot of the bed.

The older man reaches a hand out, finding Rick’s face, begging him to look Negan in the eye, to tilt his head up and face him.

Rick looks up, despite the voice in his head telling him not to, despite the instinct in his gut.

Their gazes lock, and Rick finds nothing in his eyes have changed- they're not the dark eyes he bored into on the cover of _Rolling Stone_ , not a garish and emaciated feature like all the rest of him. It’s Negan,  _his_ Negan.

He softens under the vulnerable gaze, and Negan speaks up.

“Do you still love me?” He asks Rick.

The younger boy is thrown aback by the question for a brief moment, and his eyes begin to water.

It stings more than usual.

“I could never stop,” he answers finally, and his words are unexpectedly wobbly with emotion.

Rick’s eyes falter from Negan’s gaze, slipping his sight onto his blemished skin and his lips that are bruised and bitten hard, tinged an unlively blue. “Does that make me weak?” He asks, when his gaze returns to that warm brown. He notices a mossy green there that he never has before.

Negan shakes his head, his mop of stringy, dark hair swishing with the movement, some of it falling into his eyes, “No, Rick. You’re the strongest person I’ve ever known.”

Rick chuckles a self deprecating chuckle, “You didn’t know me that long, Negan.”

Negan smiles, a small stretch of cracked lips, sad but humored, “It was long enough.”

Rick feels his own face mirroring Negan’s, finds himself smiling back, huffing a single laugh that is in no way jolly.

He watches as the man's gaze shifts from his eyes to his lips, just as his had on Negan, and then he's leaning in.

But Rick’s stomach churns with dread- he doesn’t want to kiss him. Not now.

Should I just let him do it? He thinks, as Negan comes closer and closer, eyes closed and lips puckered slightly.

Fuck it, he concludes, I’m just gonna let him-

“Hey, _pendejo_ , wake the hell up!”

Rick starts awake to a throw pillow striking his face, Rosita looming over him as he lies lazily on the couch in his living room.

He looks out the window behind the girl’s shoulder and knows he couldn’t have been asleep for very long.

The light of the very early morning is easy on his eyes, diffused and pearlescent, accompanied by a generous layer of clouds that will in time only fade as minutes pass. It’s a sight to see, beautiful and all those kinds of words, especially after that dream.

He had been yearning for a dream like that, a dream about Negan, and he finally got one and it ended up being equal parts horrifying and depressing.

But the beginning, being naked underneath Negan, his skin under his hands, providing Rick with that loving attention he craved so badly from the man- that was nice.

Seeing the toll his drug use had done to him- whether it was actually realistic or not- that wasn’t so nice. Heartbreaking, more like it.

Rick groans exasperatedly because of many things, mostly because he's exhausted and now he's worried, to top it all off.

He rolls onto his stomach and curls into the fetal position, tucking the pillow Rosita had weaponized against him into his chest. “What do you want?” He whimpers tiredly.

“Abuelita wants me to paint her house purple. I need you to help me hold the ladder and shit.”

“I just got back from work!” he argues weakly, gesturing to his grimy work polo, “and how the hell did you get into my house?”

Rosita doesn’t answer the last question, “It was your last day. You don’t have to go back tomorrow, so you can rest then.”

“I’m not gonna be here tomorrow, Rosita,” he supplies, pointedly.

He can’t see her face, but he can sense her emotions in her silence. “Yeah.. I know,” she says, and Rick gets it now.

She wants to spend some time with him.

So he gets up despite his heavy eyes.

“Fine,” he mumbles, making his way upstairs, “Just let me change… I’m wearing my good jeans,” he adds the last bit in good humor.

She eyes the faded, tattered denim clinging to his calves, distressing over his knees and slipping modestly down his calves, covering the leather of his boots up until the ankle, the hems frayed with wear and tear.

“Yeah, right,” she muses sarcastically.

“It was supposed to be a joke.”

She huffs a laugh, smirking funnily, “Jokes were never your strong suit, Ricky.”

-

The two of them are perched on ladders with their paint cans full of lilac goop, five feet apart, a window on Rick’s left and a window on Rosita’s right- making it two windows between them, wide and open, the music of Santana filtering through the minuscule squares of wiry screen that lies between the inside and the outside of the house.

He hears the sound of clean, cutting, sustained notes in a fast succession, supported by the warm thud of congas and African drums.

Then a voice, full and thick, but not very practiced.

_You've got to change your evil ways... baby_

_Before I stop loving you_

_You've got to change... baby_

_And every word that I say, it's true_

_You've got me running and hiding_

_All over town_

_You've got me sneaking and peeping_

_And running you down_

_This can't go on..._ _  
_

_Lord knows you got to change... baby_

“Abuelita’s told you the story right?” Rosita asks.

“About Carlos Santana?”

Rosita laughs, “And how she played him-” Rick joins in and together they say, “Better than he plays guitar.”

“Yeah,” Rick smiles upon recalling the memory, “She told me and Negan that one, said this song was about her, and apparently when she told him it was nothin’ special, he gave her the boot, but then called her the next day beggin’ for her to come back… Who knows if that’s true..”

“Oh, it is,” Rosita says, “and if it isn’t, my whole childhood is one big fat lie. That was my bedtime story for _chingos_ of years.”

Rick laughs at that, but ultimately the silence returns, both of them focusing in on their works- or at least Rick is- being extra careful with the corners of the window, trying not to touch the tape with the pastel shade of purple even though he knows if it did, it would be of no cost.

Then Rosita speaks up, “What are you looking for over there in Austin?” She asks.

Her voice was so sudden, splitting into his steady concentration that he had to turn his head sharply to look at her, causing the ladder to wobble.

He takes in her question, contemplating.

“I’m not sure,” he answers her, after a moment, “I just feel like I have to go… and I want to. I miss it.”

“You sure you don’t miss Negan? Sure that’s not the reason you’re just.. fleeing?”

“I’m not just fleeing,” he answers, pointedly, though he’s sure Rosita knows that, “My parents know, Tara knows, Noah knows. You and Abby know. I’ve said my ‘see ya’ laters’, but it's not goodbye.” He swallows, tilting his head, “These past few years, they’ve been… They- I’ve needed them. I made some friends, did some stupid shit with them, I talked to my parents more than I ever did in my first twenty years of living-  I’m not just gonna erase that… and I’ll always miss Negan, but I’m not going back for him. I’m going for _me._ ”

Rosita nods, and things go quiet for a few seconds.

“I’m gonna miss you,” she says, looking him in the eye.

Rick smiles softly, “You’re just sayin’ that cuz I hooked you up with Tara.”

She barks a laugh, not expecting the gentle humor, “You got me there.”

"I'll miss you, too," Rick says finally, and they go back to painting in time with the music.

-

Rick's driving down I-35 in the beat up old lemon of a car he'd managed to buy himself in the past few years.

He never drove it much, he didn't like driving and his hometown was very small, but now he has a reason to.

A _six_ _hour_ reason to.

He reaches out to change the radio station he'd been ignoring, too far consumed in the congested highway and his own nervous thoughts.

A few ticks and he manages to find that old college radio station he and Negan listened to after the oldies station was kicked to the dirt.

The signal is a little staticky, since he's so far away, but he can still hear a familiar song, hear the words every so often- words he already knows.

_Skip a light fandango_

_Turn cartwheels cross the floor_

_I was feeling kind of seasick_

_The crowd called out for more_

_The room was humming harder_

_As the ceiling flew away_

_When we called out for another drink_

_The waiter brought a tray._

Negan had shown him this song, of course- Negan had showed him basically all of the songs he knows, all of the songs he loves. (He loves this one especially, loves the unorthodox story it tells.)

Rick thinks that should make it harder to get over him- and maybe it does, because he’ll always be reminded of Negan when he hears the songs- but over the years, hearing them without the man makes the sting lessen, makes Negan a little bit more of a memory that rests on the sweeter side of his brain.

One things for sure, he’ll never forget him, because he'll always be listening to these songs.

 _She said there is no reason_ _  
_

_And the truth is plain to see._

_But I wandered through my playing cards_

_And would not let her be_

_One of sixteen vestal virgins_

_Who were leaving for the coast_

_And although my eyes were open_ _  
_

_They might have just as well been closed_

-

“This’ll be your room,” Glenn says, giving Rick a tour of his and Maggie's home, “It's usually the room I paint in so it kinda reeks, but y’kno…”

Rick laughs, looking up at his friend who he has not seen or talked to in person for such a long time, “Actually, I don't know.”

Glenn gives him a friendly slap on the back, a smile breaching his face, “It’s good to see you, dude. You look good.”

“You too, man,” Rick says as he plops into the bed sitting in the middle of the small bedroom, surveying his surroundings.

There’s paint all over the floors that are old, wooden, and creaky, littered with scratches and color. In the corner Rick sees an easel with a sheet draped over the canvas it supports. He sees a small desk with tubes of paint and a vase full of brushes. On the walls are an array of paintings, all retaining a style that is very much Glenn’s. When he sees the original painting of his face, his eyes linger on it.

Glenn notices this, and says, “Oh man, I got a lot of buddies who wanna hire you as a muse, if you’re looking for some work. Maybe get your face on the side of some more buildings if you’re up to it.”

Rick turns his gaze towards Glenn, quirking an eyebrow as if to survey his seriousness, “I think one is enough for me, but I’ll let you know if I change my mind.”

“Suit yourself, dude,” Glenn says, “Maggie should be home any minute now, so be ready for that. She might cry when she sees you.”

Rick gives a slight smile at that, “Thank you guys for letting me stay here while I look for a place.”

“It’s no problem, man, really. It’s been too long since you slept on our couch… except now you’re in our guest room… on a bed. You know what I mean,”

“I do."

There's a brief pause, and then Glenn asks, as if he's just remembered, “You still write?” 

“Every once in awhile, not as much as I used to,” Rick answers, “You still doing your short films?”

“Yeah, I am, actually but I have this idea for something bigger,” He begins, and Rick braces himself for the story he sees in Glenn's eyes, “The other day I was on the phone with one of my old buddies from high school named Luis, and he was this really short, stout but buff dude who was super into powerlifting, he like won state champion every year of his highschool career, and I don’t know, we weren’t talking about anything spectacular, it was just stunted small talk. Then we hung up, and I just started thinking about high school and graduation, and I remembered when we graduated he had this girl named Winnie came up to him- she was like his best friend, they’d been best friends since first grade- and Luis told me that she had told him ‘Hey, I’m in love with you and I have been since middle school.’ and keep in my mind Luis had already had this girlfriend he’d been with since the sixth grade, so Winnie was really putting it all out on the line for this dude, y’kno, cause it was the last time she was ever going to see him-”

“Holy shit,” Rick says, eyes widening, “What’d he say? Did he even like her that way?”

“That’s the thing!” Glenn exclaims, “Luis only saw Winnie as a friend, as a sister, even. He didn’t like her at all romantically, and Winnie was crushed and their friendship was ruined.”

“Fuck… that’s horrible.”

“It is.”

“... And what does this have to do with anything?”

“Oh yeah,” Glenn continues, remembering, “Well, Winnie and Luis went on to live their lives again, never reconciled, as far as I know, and they both did pretty good in life. She’s like a big business woman or something and he’s competing in a bunch of strong man competitions, and they’re both happy. That graduation thing was just a brief teenage woe, and it got me thinking, man, that would be such a good fucking movie.”

Rick considers that for a moment, “Yeah, it would be.”

“I’m glad you think that, because I want you to write it.”

Rick guffaws instantly, “What? Me?"

“Yeah,” Glenn shrugs easily, “I mean, I'd do it myself if I was capable but I’m really bad when it comes to screenplay. I get too descriptive.”

“And how do you know I'm capable?”

“I don't know, but you're in my house and you owe me,” he chimes, pleased with himself, “Now, take notes. I want a real Napolean Dynamite feel, like insider joke kinda funny- you know the scene where Napoleon is asking Kip to bring his lip balm to school and Kip has a pile of nachos on the counter? I want that kind of funny, but on our own terms.”

“I've never seen Napoleon Dynamite.”

Glenn squeezes his eyes shut with the impact Rick’s words carry on him, “Oh my God,” he sighs, scrubbing a hand down his face.

“Well, at least not the whole movie.”

“Just… come with me.”

Rick follows Glenn into the living room, plopping down onto the couch as he watches his friend find the movie effortlessly in his collection and then pop it into the DVD player.

As the opening credits play, Rick really has no expectations. He’s seen bits of pieces of the movie that have made him chuckle, but that’s about it- plus, he’s pretty tired from the long drive, so he’s content with just having to sit down and watch a movie with Glenn, who looks nothing short of ecstatic.

But then, the camera focuses in on mouth breathing Napoleon waiting patiently for his bus to school, and Rick just loses it, he looks so goddamn funny. He doesn’t know what it is about him that makes Rick crack up, maybe it’s the movie’s realistically low budget, or Napoleon's geeky demeanor and languid voice- he can’t exactly put his finger on it.

He usually only laughs this hard when he's high or something. 

They’re on the scene where a farmhand shoots a cow in front of a bunch of terrified little kids when Maggie walks through the front door, the jingle of keys marking her presence.

“Again, Glenn? That’s the third time this week,” She remarks.

“It’s for research purpose!” Glenn says, giggles still tainting his voice.

That’s when she notices Rick beside him on the couch, who’s still laughing as well.

“Rick!” She exclaims, going over to give him an easy, one-armed hugged from his spot on the couch, a grin splitting across her face, “You look so old!”

Rick gets one look at her and her engorged belly and his eyes widen in surprise, “And you look so… pregnant.. Wow!” He looks at Glenn as if to say, ‘Wow, man, you mighta left a little something out.’

Glenn pauses the movie to join their conversation, saying, “Yeah, I might’ve had a little somethin’ to do with that.”

“Wow,” Rick says again, unable to tear his eyes away from her stomach, pert and round like a globe, “How far along are you?”

“Got about nine weeks left ‘til I gotta pop this sucker out,” she says.

“Do you know what you’re having?”

“A boy,” Maggie and Glenn say in unison, exchanging sweet smiles.

Glenn pops up from his spot on the couch, running off to another room as he says, “I’ll go grab the ultrasound pictures. He looks like a little bean, I swear to God!”

Maggie shakes her head fondly.

Rick is still sort of in shock, because holy shit his friends are engaged and have their own house and they’re… procreating.

“Have you two decided on a name?”

“Hershel,” she answers, “after my Daddy.”

At the mention of her father, Rick can’t help but think of Beth.

“Have you… talked to Beth lately?” He asks, hoping she won’t hear the question that lies within his words.

If she does, she doesn’t say anything- but much to Rick’s dismay, her face drops and her tone goes weary.

“Yeah, I have. She’s- she’s good.”

Rick almost doesn’t want to ask this question, but he does anyway, because he can’t help it, “Does she say anything about Negan?”

“Bits and pieces. Most of it isn’t good..”

Rick nearly gulps it becomes so hard to swallow, “What do you mean?”

“Drugs,” she says simply, looking up at Rick with apologetic green eyes, “He quit the band, I don’t know if you heard. It was all over the news.”

Rick doesn’t watch _or_ read the news, and has completely avoided magazine covers ever since Rosita’s harsh predictions.

_“What?”_

“Yeah,” she says, “They’ve got a new guitarist now, but she says he’s not as good. They tried to reconcile, to get him clean, but he refused and just left back to California.”

“Is he-”

“They don’t know,” Maggie says, “He could be.”

Rick nods.

Hearing this information, it feels like she’s not talking to him about Negan. It feels like they’re gossiping about some celebrity. In a way they are, but he hates that that’s how it is now. He doesn’t feel that personal connection like he should when he’s talking about a loved one in distress, just feels like he’s being told a morbid, made-up story.

“Sorry it took me so long,” Glenn says, returning with a roll of photos in his hand, eagerly coming up to Rick, still positively beaming, “Look! Look at our son! That’s Hershel Greene Rhee. Should be Hershel _Bean_ Rhee, ‘cause he looks like a kidney bean.”

The pictures make Rick smile, Glenn and Maggie and their excitement for their unborn child make him smile and they take his mind off of what could be going on in California.

And Glenn was right, their baby does look like a bean.

-

After the movie, Glenn makes the three of them dinner, and they eat together as they delve into some friendly conversation, popping jokes and spitting out flecks of food when they talk too fast or laugh too hard.

It’s nice for a good while, but then it gets a little uncomfortable when the topic of conversation begins to center more on Rick- his love life in particular.

“So Rick, you got anyone special in your life? Meet anyone new?” Maggie asks, eyeing him funnily.

Rick’s fork starts to feel a little foreign in his hand, “I uh, made some friends back home. Tara and Noah. They’re pretty cool.. you guys would like ‘em. They're pretty funny. Other than them that’s about it, nobody else back home was too appealing.”

“You ever thought about putting yourself back on the market? Going on a date or two?” Glenn asks around a mouthful of bread, chipper and casual.

“Um.. no, I’m fine-”

“Or you could just look for a hookup if that’s all you want for right now. I’m sure you’ve had some, y’kno… urges.”

Rick flushes, shifting in his seat, “Not exactly.”

He has had… urges, so to speak, but he can’t see himself with anybody but Negan, can’t imagine being intimate with somebody he doesn’t have feelings for. He’d rather have his hand. “I’m fine… but thanks for bein’ concerned.”

“It’s no problem, dude.”

"The right person will come along when they're supposed to," Maggie adds.

Though she meant it in good spirit, the words make his chest ache.

"Yeah, maybe they will," Rick says quietly, because it's true. Maybe Negan wasn't the last person he'll ever love or be loved by, or the last person he'll ever have sex with.

After dinner, Rick helps Glenn with the dishes and then he goes out for a walk, itching to reacquaint himself with the town he called home for a couple odd years.

The sun is setting into warm purples and oranges and pinks as he walks with it over his head, and it feels like nothing has changed, feels a little like deja vu- like he’s lived this moment before.

He has, but the sky was not this color and the people around him were not the same.

He’s not the same person.

Rick turns a corner, and then another, and another, before he finds himself downtown, mixed in with the bustle of people on their own merry way.

As he’s strolling, hands in his pockets, he hears the faint tune of music, growing louder and louder with each step he takes towards it.

He knows where it’s coming from, and as he follows it, the words of the song blowing in the wind become clearer and clearer.

The voice of the singer is a voice he’s heard before in music that would pour out of Negan’s room in their old apartment together, music they would dance to.

But he’s never heard this specific song before.

_I've been out walking_

_I don't do that much talking these days_

_These days_

_These days I seem to think a lot_

_About the things that I forgot to do_

_And all the times I had the chance to_

_I stopped my rambling_

_I don't do too much gambling these days_

_These days_

_These days I seem to think about how all the changes came about my way_

_And I wonder if I'll see another highway_

_I had a lover_

_I don't think I'd risk another these days_

_These days_

_And if I seem to be afraid_

_To live the life that I have made in song_

_It's just that I've been losing so long_

_I stopped my dreaming_

_I won't do too much scheming these days_

_These days_

_These days I sit on cornerstones_

_And count the time in quarter tones to 10_

_Please don't confront me with my failures_ _  
_

_I had not forgotten them_

He follows the music all the way to the parking lot of the record store where Negan used to work.

The door to the shop is open, music blaring loudly from it.

Perched atop one of the windows is a sign that reads  _NOW HIRING_  in big red letters.

Rick takes the sign and walks into the store.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading! I hope you enjoyed and as always, feedback and constructive criticism are more than welcome :) <3


	9. Negan's Fourth Year

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs mentioned in this chapter include:  
> 'Dear Prudence' by The Beatles  
> 'Happiness is a Warm Gun' by The Beatles  
> 'Damaged' by Primal Scream

“This is my last hit,” Alpha says as she sticks the needle in her vein with poise, “After this, that's it- I'm quitting.”

She doesn’t look at Negan when she says it. She hasn’t ever since she first went back on her word.

“You've been saying that shit for the past week,” Negan says bitterly around a cigarette. He flicks some ash onto the old wooden floor of the girl's apartment. “If you'd kept to your word you would've been clean as a fucking whistle by now,” he mutters.

“Yeah, well.. each time I say it I mean it. But it's kind of hard when our relationship revolves around dope, don’t you think?”

Negan rolls his eyes, flicks some more ash.

“What's the point in you quitting anyways? You been on this shit half your fucking life. Might as well die that way.”

The girl nearly flinches at his words. “I'm not gonna die this way. This is my last fucking hit.”

Negan huffs a mirthless laugh through his nose, “Yeah? Well it sure as shit ain't mine.”

Alpha’s face twists unpleasantly.

“You said what's the point of getting clean..? Well, what's the fucking point of shooting up every hour when you're so damn hooked it doesn't even get you high anymore? When you gotta feel the needle prick your skin just so your hands stop shaking, and so you don’t feel like you have to fucking puke anymore? That's fucking pointless to me.”

“Yet you just fucking did it,” Negan argues, looking her straight in the eye, “And you loved every goddamn second of it, I bet.”

Alpha goes silent, tearing away from Negan's gaze with shame.

“You can die this way… but I'm not. I can't anymore.”

Negan grabs another cigarette from his nearly empty pack. He'd just bought it this morning.

“Why now?” He asks after a thick pause, “You never wanted to quit before, even when this shit stopped getting you high, so why now?”

She swallows hard, frowning a little as she confesses quietly, “I want to have a baby.”

Negan absolutely guffaws, “ _What the fucking fuck, Alpha??!_ I don't even fucking like you that way, not even a fucking _little_ -”

“Not with you, you fucking dumbass!” There's a hint of sheepishness hidden in her tone. “With.. someone else.”

Negan notices the pinkness that brightens her usually sullen cheeks, sees that fresh twinkle in her near black eyes. She glows for a second.

If Negan weren't so bitter he'd be amused, but he's as fucking bitter as a lemon’s astringent fucking asshole, so he's only annoyed.

“You're in love aren't ya?” He asks, voice condescending, grinning sharply, “How fuckin’ peachy for you, sweetheart. You'll get clean for the guy, have the time of your fucking life being in love and all that great shit, until he fucks you right the fuck over and you come running back on all fours to the fucking dope… Mark my words.”

“You're a fucking dick,” Alpha spits through gritted teeth. Her lip begins to quiver angrily and obviously Negan's struck a nerve. “You're a stupid _fucking dick!_ ”

“Tell me somethin’ I don't know, sweetheart-”

“No, _shut up!_  Shut up and listen to _me, sweetheart._ You fucking bitch and moan like the world fucked you over for no reason, like your ex boyfriend leaving you wasn't your fucking fault, like you're fucking innocent and everything and everyone else is to blame for anything that ever inconvenienced you, but it's fucking you! It's _you!_ It was your fault!” Her chest is heaving and that childlike blush to her cheeks has evolved into a furious flush of red that consumes her entire face.

“Fuck you for shitting on me when I've found something good, someone that makes me want to be better!”

Negan lets her simmer down, lets her sit back down in her seat that she had gotten up from in the heat of her passionate speech. Then he opens his mouth again.

“Jesus, you're usually not that bitchy after a fucking hit.. Musta been some bad dope.”

Alpha eyes him dumbly for a split second before she just fucking loses it; the very short lived calm before the storm.

 _“Fuck you, motherfucker!”_ She yells, grabbing a few stray, used syringes off of the floor and chucking them at the man who throws his hands up in defense, “Get out of my fucking apartment! Take your fucking dirty needles and shove them up your fucking ass and then get out of my fucking home! Die on the goddamn streets for all I care, you fucking puss-filled bastard!”

“It was a fucking joke! Jesus, calm down-”

“Don't tell me to calm down! _Get out!_ ” She chucks a burnt spoon at him, grabbing anything she can find off of the cluttered floor. “Go get your own fucking apartment with all your useless fucking money you get from playing your shitty shows on the strip, buy your own fucking dope, and get the hell away from me!”

“Will fuckin’ do!” Negan bites, grabbing his guitar case from beside the couch that he’s been sleeping on for who knows how long, and heading out the door, slamming it loudly for effect.

His one friend, and he more than likely lost her.

It doesn't hurt that much. Everything that's happened between her and him kind of feels like a blur.

But he can't help but think about what'd she'd said:

_It's you. It was your fault._

She wasn't wrong, but it's hard to hear.

-

Negan has barely used his van since he got back to LA.

He's got better things to spend his money on other than gas…

Like smack and coke... you know, priorities.

It's a miracle the piece of shit still runs, because now he's got a reason to use it.

It feels different in there, smells different. Feels like a different world, a gentler one.

There's a familiar cum stain on the driver's seat from better times, a familiar book in the glove compartment, some familiar CDs lying everywhere.

When he starts it up, the last CD he was listening to starts playing.

The Beatles White Album.

Negan recognizes the current song that begins to play as _Dear Prudence_. He remembers when he first got into The Beatles he thought this was the most beautiful love song ever made- it was so gentle and innocent and young hearted.

He wanted to meet someone like that.

Years later he did- Rick- and now this song reminds Negan of him. Every song he hears nowadays does.

_Dear Prudence, won't you come out to play?_

_Dear Prudence, greet the brand new day_

_The sun is up, the sky is blue_

_It's beautiful and so are you_

_Dear Prudence, won't you come out to play?_

Negan listens to himself breathe, focuses on it, as he sits idle in his van.

He ignores the people moving all around him, ignores the sun that hits his closed eyes and makes the back of his eyelids shine a fleshy red.

When the song ends, he finally leaves, but he's not sure where he could go.

Maybe a few years ago he could've gone to Beth's, maybe Gary’s. Hell, maybe he could still go now, but that's asking for a lot.

Either way he doesn't want to face the intervention.

He drives for a while, just cruising and enjoying the music for what it is, until he spots a park- vacant and aged. It looks a little sketchy, but he can't bring himself to be concerned.

He parks his van and gets out.

-

“Excuse me, sir?”

Negan ignores the call, keeps walking, not knowing it is in fact for him.

“Sir? Excuse me-”

Negan stops in his tracks, slightly startled as he turns to face the lady.

He meets the form of a middle aged woman wearing reading glasses, looking very motherly and polite.

His brow furrows tighter.

“Uh, yeah?”

“Are you Negan, by any chance?”

Damn, she's a fan… that's kinda funny.

“I am,” Negan says, albeit with a bit of resentment.

But the woman smiles at him warmly, the thinner skin by her eyes crinkling, “My son, he's a big fan of your group-” She corrects herself, waving a hand dismissively, “Or _was-_ he says The Saviors just aren't the same without you, but that's besides the point.”

Negan chuckles at that.

“I'm sorry to waste your time, but I'm sure my son would want me to tell you thank you, or something along those lines. Because of you he learned to play the guitar about two years ago.”

Maybe it's the honesty in her voice, and the bashfulness, the humility- but something about what she says makes him feel warm.

Negan was a fan for many years. He knows what it feels like to be inspired. It's a beautiful feeling- one of the best parts of music.

All the bullshit the industry put him through seems worth it for a moment, knowing he was that inspiration for some kid.

But just a moment.

“Here,” Negan begins, handing the woman his guitar case, “Give this to your son.”

Her eyes widen incredulously, “I’m- oh my, are you sure?? I’m sure whatever's in here must've costed you thousands- I can’t take this from you.”

Negan shrugs, “Yeah, I’m sure. I’ll make do without it.”

She opens her mouth to say something, but Negan cuts her off.

“Oh wait!” quickly he takes the case from her, setting in on the ground between their feet as he opens it up, revealing his longtime acoustic- the first guitar he bought in Austin, before the Strat- and that roll of laminated paper.

“Gotta keep this, though,” he says, wiggling the rolled up print in his hand, “Sorry.”

He latches it up again and hands it to her finally, thinking it probably smells a whole lot like weed in that thing, but she must not mind if it means a free guitar for her son.

“Thank you so much for this,” The woman says, and Negan can tell she really means it, “He's not going to believe this.”

“Let's hope he does,” Negan says finally, and then they say their goodbyes, going their separate ways once again.

Negan wanders over to the swings, swaying idle and rusted in the gentle wind, and takes a seat on the one in the middle. 

He leans his head against the chain, eyes fluttering softly, feeling tired and a little sweaty.

The sweat accumulates with the leather against his skin, and the fluid seeps into the open tracks in his arms.

He lifts his sleeves up, letting the ugly wounds air out since no one is around to see them.

Even the slight breeze of the air against his tattered skin causes him to wince.

He takes comfort in the pain.

He closes his eyes briefly, relishing in the back of his eyelids once again, soaking in the music around him:

Cicadas humming, crickets chirping, the distant sound of cars and chatter, the way the chain of the swing creaks as he rocks back and forth, kicking up dirt with the toe of his boot.

All the sounds of the city, of life, mingling in a song.

Then a melody pops into his head, and he can hear it so clearly, as if it's playing aloud.

It's not, but still he hums along- voice frail and crackled.

Music can never leave him alone, but even after everything, he knows he doesn't want it to.

-

Negan has about forty dollars in his pocket. That could either buy him a couple packs of cigarettes, or give him about two hits of smack.

Fuck, he doesn’t even have his own fucking needles. He'd have to buy those, too. So maybe just one hit...

He thinks back to what Alpha had told him not twenty four hours ago- “ _You can die this way, but I’m not.”_ \- and wonders what she herself has decided to use her money for today.

Did she give in when she felt the cold sweats? When her body started aching? When her appetite started coming back along with a killer fucking wave of nausea?

Was he the only one in this now? Or did she fail to keep her promise once again?

Maybe she’ll come looking for him. If she does, then he knows the answer.

-

Negan spends his forty dollars.

Ten to see some LA punk band play in a smelly ass bar, twenty he gives away to this homeless veteran with a beard down to his groin, and the last ten he spends on gas.

He decides to try quitting cold turkey, cigarettes _and_ heroin, like it's some sort of casual decision. Being alone really gives you a lot of time to think.

He regrets it all a few hours later when he's lying in the back of his van, clammy and nauseous, The Beatles still playing.

It's a different song, though. Negan hears it fuzzy in his ears.

_Down_

_I need a fix cause I'm going down_

_Down to the bits that I left uptown_

_I need a fix cause I'm going down_

Maybe he could get some money. He doesn't know if he wants to, though.

He sits and ponders on it for another ten minutes, until it turns into hours, until it turns into days.

-

Since Negan left The Saviors, he’d been playing small shows here and there- just him and his guitar.

At first they were free, sourcing from his undying need to just play.

Then people started coming, and someone suggested he oughta start charging.

So he did, but not a lot- just enough so he could keep up his addiction.

It was a win-win: music and drugs.

And it was actual, unfiltered, uninhibited music. Nothing like all those fancy fucking shows with The Saviors.

It was raw and it was honest.

Now that he doesn't even have a guitar, he can't do that.

But he could try.

After a few days lying in his van, trudging from gas station bathroom to gas station bathroom, puking and shitting and washing up in grimy sinks, avoiding his own gaze in the dirty mirrors, he manages to make it to one of his usual small venues-  an old bar ran by an old woman named Gloria who claims to this day she could out drink Janis Joplin _and_ Jim Morrison back in her prime.

They were both locals there in the sixties, or so she says.

He takes a seat at the bar, head feeling too heavy to do anything other than hang miserably from his shoulders.

“What's your damage, hotshot?” Gloria asks, chipper and punctuated with a wheezy laugh as she polishes a very shiny looking pint glass. It looks spotless but she keeps on rubbing.

“You saying I got damage, Gloria?”

“Oh I seen that look, buddy. You bet I am. I've seen that same skin. You're kickin’ something, alright. So what is it?”

“Smack,” Negan answers, “and coke.”

“Knew it,” she comments, “You know, Janis, she came in her one day in 1969 trying to kick smack, looked about as miserable as they get- didn't even want her whiskey. In fact, she threw up at the sight of it. But- as far as looks go, I think you might be giving her a run for her money.”

“Geez…” is all Negan can muster. He thinks it's funny though, even if his body can't find the humor to portray that.

It's funny, because if someone had told him a story about one of his favorite musicians four years ago, if someone had compared him to one of his favorite musicians in _any_ kind of way, he would've been elated, smitten, beyond flattered.

Now that he is someone's favorite musician, that he _is_ in some ways like those people he looked up to, he sees they're just humans. Sure they were immensely talented, but they were people.

They shit and they puked and they felt the exact same way he does right now trying to get off smack. Now they're dead. Well, most of them are.

Nothing special lies in them. Just their music, maybe, and their luck.

She puts the glass away, wiping her hands with the cloth she’d been using. She eyes him pensively before asking, “What are you trying to kick this for, huh? They always got reasons.”

“No money.”

She doesn't buy it. “Oh I'm sure you got money somewhere, honey. You ain't used it all,” she laughs, “What's the real reason?”

“...Spite.”

Gloria hmphs, “I like that.” She gives him an amused grin, a pride lying within it, “What do you want? It's on the house.”

“Water,” he says immediately, the dryness of his mouth intensifying just with the thought.

Then his eyes almost instinctively fall on the fat Gibson Hummingbird lying dormant on display in the case behind her shoulder, “And I wanna play that guitar.”

She serves him the water, but raises an eyebrow as she does it. “That's Clapton’s guitar, boy.”

Negan chugs the pint of water like Janis Joplin would her whiskey.

When Negan grimaces, it's the first time in days that it hasn't been because of his pain. “Fuck Clapton. He probably barely touched her. Too busy fucking George Harrison’s wife.”

She gives a hoot of a laugh, and seems to consider it- and it does not end up in vain.

“You know if it were anyone else, I'd say hell no and I'd kick them outta my bar for even suggesting it, don't you?”

“You fuckin’ bet I do,” Negan nods, “But I'm a man who's on his last goddamn puny piece of hope.”

Gloria smirks, wordlessly flagging down another one of the bartenders, telling him to get the guitar out of the display.

“I like you, Negan,” she says when he has the instrument in his hands, “You're a specter all on your own.”

Negan responds to that with the strum of a simple chord.

“You like the _Jesus and Mary Chain_ , right?”

“Nope.”

“This one's for you.”

Negan begins to pick out the beginning of a song he'd been thinking about for a while, rolling the lyrics around over and over in his head as he wallowed in his misery until they became a little numbing.

He drags it out a little, wishing he had someone to sing it out in a way that wasn't so half assed like when Negan did it.

That's when a voice comes in, a little late, but still it finds a way to fit seamlessly into the time with a finesse that only experience can bring.

And he knows that voice- it's Beth.

“ _And the way I felt inside made me feel so glad to be alive. Got damaged, I got damaged. I lost myself in you,_ ” she sings easily.

Negan's head whips towards the source, hands still working, and sees the blonde girl walking up to him with her face and eyes so impassive, focused on nothing but singing.

He smiles as much as he can even though his body can't nearly handle it.

Beth continues singing, taking a seat in the stool beside him.

“ _I'd never felt so happy. I'd never felt so happy. I'd never felt so happy, I'll never feel that way again. No, no, no, no, no.”_

When the song is over, a faint applause sound from the fellow bar goers- which aren't many in the early afternoon- along with a few whoops.

Negan looks over at Beth with that same smile that looks so weak but is actually a beaming miracle considering his meager state. Beth returns the look hesitantly.

“You watched a lot of fuckin’ Glee as a kid, didn't you Beth?” Negan asks, because her entrance was too fucking dramatic for her to have not.

“Maybe I did.”

Negan's about to say something when Olivia passes a foamy pint to Beth. “First ones free for new customers, hon. Always nice to see a new face.”

So she's not a regular, Negan thinks.

Beth nods a thank you at the woman before knocking half of her drink in one go.

“How’d you find me?” Negan asks as she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.

“Saw your van,” she answers simply, “Wanted to see if it was really you, or if maybe you'd sold the thing for drug money.”

Negan hmphs, “You surprised to see me?”

“I'm not. I know you're not that stupid.”

Oh, but he is. He would've done it, he thinks, if he felt the need to.

Negan dismisses himself from their conversation by averting his attention to the guitar again, strumming idly, picking here and there. It's not his guitar but it feels familiar. It always will.

He feels people watching him and Beth, listening. He had felt the attention the second he walked in by himself, but he was too sick to care- still is.

“Where are you staying?”

“In my van.”

“Are you clean?”

“Yeah.”

“How long?”

“Four days.”

Beth studies his face, seeking the truth.

It's all there, written in his sallow skin, in his healing sores, and his sweaty sheen.

“You look like hell.”

“Feel like it, too.”

He continues to strum a tune, people are still eyeing him and Beth.

He eyes them back, just surveying them. It's only a handful and a half of people, all with eager, attentive eyes and blessedly glowing skin.

“Wanna give ‘em a show?” He asks Beth.

She turns to do what he had just done, then turns back to face the bar, downing the rest of her drink.

“Let's do it.”

-

Beth offers to let Negan stay at her house. He goes because wants to. And the back of his van is really starting to reek.

She lives in a quaint, sunshine yellow beach house in Santa Monica- a tall, two story house with a comfortable looking balcony.

Inside, it's very home-like, full of colors that don't match but seem to compliment each other just fine.  There's a bunch of knick knacks and souvenirs, on shelves and on the walls, accompanied with framed pictures of The Saviors.

He sees a picture of the four of them with Gary back in Austin, years ago. They all look so happy, so smiley and excited for the future.

He walks up to it to get a better look.

"Man... where do the years go?" He thinks aloud.

"In your back pocket," Beth quips with a wink.

There's pictures everywhere, so many memories of Beth's life and all the people that have been in it.

Of Glenn and Maggie, of her Dad, of her late Mother.

It makes him wish he had taken more pictures in his time. Then again, he really hasn't had much to take pictures of these past few years, and when he did he was took occupied with his addiction to find anything worth saving.

Everything picturesque lay behind his eyelids after a good hit, and _only_ after a good hit.

Shit, that thought makes him want to use.

Suddenly he's all too aware of the wounds in his arms, the tracks that have taken the most damage. He feels them itch and sting.

Usually he's able to think that feeling away, but sometimes it demands attention.

“Where's Daryl?” Negan asks, trying to steel himself.

“There's pictures of him there, too,” Beth says, as she gets comfortable, kicking off her shoes and walking into her kitchen, completely misinterpreting his question.

“No, I mean, doesn't he live with you? Are you two still together?”

“Oh yeah, we’re good. We don't live together though, he's got his own place,” she answers, rummaging through her fridge, “I like my space. So does he. Fuck, I _need_ my space. I'm too young to be shackin’ up.”

“Oh,” Negan says, “Is he- is he good?”

“Yeah, he’s doin’ alright,” she answers, “All of us have kinda been doin’ our own thing, y'kno. Workin’ on side projects. Daryl's off in New York doing some studio work. Dwight's a little more of a family guy. I've been workin' on some solo stuff.”

“Guess the new guy wasn't really cutting it, huh?”

Beth eyes him tauntingly, “You want me to say yes… So I'm gonna say… not exactly. He was alright.”

Negan smiles, smugness returning.

“You want something to eat?” Beth asks gingerly, like she doesn't want to offend, “My fridge is about as empty as your stomach but.. we could get take out.”

The mention of food provokes a wave of nausea. It's not as strong as it could be, but boy is it there.

“No thanks.”

“Negan, you're too skinny," Beth says, all serious and grandmotherly.

“You try and feed me and it’ll come right the fuck up with a goddamn vengeance. So unless you want me to puke on your cute ass carpet, I don't think it's a good idea.”

But her resolve does not dwindle. “Puke all you want, but you gotta at least try to keep somethin' down.”

“Fine but.. not now,” Negan settles, “Gimme an hour or two to come to terms with this eating bullshit.”

“Deal,” Beth says, and then she studies him again, head to toe, not at all discreet, “You need anythin'?” Her voice is soaked in pity.

He could use a cigarette or ten, maybe some weed. 

“Well, if you're not too busy feeling fuckin’ sorry for me, could you show me where your shower is?”

-

What is Negan now? Now that he has nothing. Or at least that's what it feels like.

No band. No family. No lover. No dope.

Everything good he has pushed away, lost at his own fault.

What do people see when they look at him? Why do so many people all around the globe look at him and adore him when he can't even be at peace with himself?

The shower sprays a series or droplets, sounding loudly as they fall against the vacant tile of the glass stall.

Negan stands in front of the mirror not a few feet away, looking at his form.

His face. He looks sick just as sick as he's felt these past few days. Sunken, dull, gray, dead. Those are some good descriptors.

His torso reminds him of Christ being crucified on the cross. Though Negan is not holy. He's a caricature.

The worst part is his arms, he thinks. He feels so much shame when he looks at his arms. Everything is dark and decayed, looking like two limbs of rotting flesh. They hurt with every movement now and Negan thinks they're getting worse, more infected.

He gets into the shower and sinks to the tiled floor, enjoying the hot spray, but trying not to let it come in contact with his arms.

Clear water runs down the metal drain, and he watches as it does.

-

Negan's drying off when he hears Beth talking to someone on the phone.

He listens idly, not paying much attention.

“Yeah… He's staying with me for a while. I think Alpha gave him the boot… He said he's been clean for four days, but I don't know if I should believe that… He came back? He's in Austin??... How is he?... Wow, that sounds like a terrible idea for a movie. Tell him and Glenn I said what's up-” there’s a longer pause, and then her voice wilts with the next line, “Oh. No, I get it. It's better if he doesn't have contact with any of us that are too close to Negan… Yeah, I won't. Of course I wont, I’m not dumb. I won't tell him about Rick.”

Negan's head goes up, his interest perking drastically.

He wraps his towel around his waist and leaves the restroom, seeking Beth.

He finds her lounging in the living room, sprawled out on the couch with her cellphone pressed to her ear.

When she sees him her eyes widen in surprise. Negan doesn't miss how her gaze falls on his arms, but he can't bring himself to care much about it.

“Tell me what about Rick?” He commands.

Beth sits upright in an instant.

“Maggie, I’ll call you back,” she says in one small breath, hanging up in a speedy second.

“Beth, what about Rick??” He asks again, tensely, almost hungrily.

The girl just gawks at his limbs in a stupor.

“Negan, your-your arms. They're infected! We need to get you to a hospital, you could have-”

“Answer me!” Negan cries desperately.

She ignores it, still stunned, “You need to get them checked out before-”

“Beth,” he starts, calmer than before- quieter, but just as aching and just as dire, “Please, just tell me. _Please._ ”

Beth suffers a look of contemplation, blue eyes finally meeting Negan’s. She gives in after a long, dragging moment.

“Rick’s back in Austin.”

Negan stands there silently, wearing only a towel that hangs off his gaunt hips.

He doesn't know how to process that information, can't quite grasp what it means- if it means anything.

“Is he- how is he?” Is the first thing he wants to know.

“Maggie said he's good. He's doing good.”

He nods, takes a seat on the couch that's far away from Beth, holding his head in his hands. He feels dizzy. Maybe it was the hot shower, maybe it's his empty stomach.

He has to go. He has to go back to Austin. Just to see him.

Fuck, it's been so long. So much could've happened. He could be back in school, back at UT. There could be someone else, someone who's treats Rick better than Negan ever got to.

Beth said it was better if Rick had no contact with anyone close to Negan- does that mean Rick wants nothing to do with him? That he can't stand him?

Now Negan wonders what Rick has seen about him and The Saviors, what he's read-  _if_ he's encountered anything.

He looks down at his arms, feels that shame again, but now much deeper, and thinks he can't blame Rick if he doesn't want anything to do with him.

The last few years have been long.

But Negan still wants to see him- _needs_ to see him.

“Negan, we _really_ have to get you to a hospital, okay? Your arms look fucking brutal- I think you might have a blood infection.” She tries to reach out for him, but Negan winces away.

He realizes what he's done and turns to face her. “I need to see him,” he states, “I need to go back to Austin.”

A whirlwind of emotions comes across the girl's face: sadness, pity, hope, excitement- but fear is the most prominent.

“No," she says when she finds her voice, “No, no way in hell.”

Negan ignores her, getting to his feet, “You don't get it, Beth-”

“No, Negan, _you_ don't get it,” she declares, pointedly, “He's doin’ good. All on his own. _You_ have been clean for _four days_. You go over there, you're gonna ruin everythin’ he's struggled to build, and you're gonna scare him.” Her eyes flit back down to his arms, “And if we don't get you to a hospital, you won't have the arms to do anything about it.”

Negan absorbs that information, “I'm not going to a hospital.”

“Yes you are.”

“ _No_ , I'm not.”

“Listen,” she hisses, getting up in his face, “If you _ever_ want to see Rick again, if you ever want to go back to Austin, go back to _anywhere_ , you need to be clean. You need to be healthy- one hundred percent, mind and body.”

Negan's eyes bore dull into hers. He knows what she's saying is true and he doesn't want to hear it. These four days of being clean have been so hard and she's regarding them as nothing.

They've been hell, and they're barely starting to get easy. Now that Negan has tasted the wonders of powerful, chemically artificial highs he knows there will always be a craving, and he'll have to deal with that for the rest of his life, probably.

That makes him want to use.

“We aren't going to let you anywhere near Rick unless you're completely clean. Unless you check yourself into a rehab center, and get yourself checked up. Cold turkey ain't cuttin’ it.”

He looks down at his arms. He could get lost in the ugliness, he really could. In fact, he usually does on a daily basis. It's a bit intriguing- like valleys and canyons, and volcanoes of dead flesh and puss.

“Can't wait for this shit to be all over the fuckin’ internet, on all the papers and shit. Me doing the walk of shame into a fuckin' ten week treatment center…”

Beth gives him a weak smile that grows and prospers as the seconds go by. He thinks he sees tears beginning to pool in her eyes.

“Fuck the papers,” she says, laughing gladly in disbelief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading! I hope you all enjoyed and as always, feedback and constructive criticism are more than welcome :) <3  
> its right around the bend, my friend!!


	10. The Fifth Year

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the other chapters have taken place in the summer, this one is in the winter time. Also sorry if this is kinda choppy I got really used to writing in strictly one POV each chapter.  
> Songs mentioned in this chapter include:  
> 'Hourglass' by Catfish and the Bottlemen  
> 'Threat of Joy' by The Strokes  
> 'Helter Skelter' by The Beatles

“I just don't see how that could be a funny idea for a movie,” Arat contends.

Rick and Glenn quickly become defensive, Glenn leaning over the checkout counter with the gentle but stirring debate that moves like water throughout him.

Rick opens his mouth to say something, but Glenn beats him to it.

“Everyone says that, but look, when you see it, you’ll know! There's humor in it because there's humor in everything if you really look for it!”

“So when am I gonna see it then? You guys have been yapping about it for the past year and I haven't seen so much as a script.”

“I _have_ the script! I’ll show it to you tomorrow,” Rick argues, “And we’re still trying to find actors. Noah's coming down soon so we can screen test him and he has the most comical eyes you'll ever see, it's fucking hilarious, alright! You'll see…”

Glenn backs him up, “Yeah, you’ll see.”

Arat rolls her eyes, “That's all I ever hear from you two, ‘you’ll see, you’ll see!’ And I have not seen shit!”

Glenn and Rick's voices overlap each other's as they scramble to speak- but quickly they are silenced.

“Rick, Arat- those new releases ain't gonna showcase themselves! Get to stocking for God's sake, I can hear you all talking shit all the way from my damn office!” The three of them startle at Simon's voice,  having gotten too deep into conversation, “And Glenn, buy something or get the hell outta my shop! I should charge you for all the sweet air you've been sucking right up for the past three goddamn hours!”

“Cool your jets, man, I'm buying like five Otis Redding records, geez!”

“I’ll ring you up, then,” Simon says, offering a sarcastic smile, before he looks back at his two employees, “Arat, Rick, scamper off. Make yourselves useful.”

They do as he says, both saying their goodbyes to Glenn before they make their way to the giant bin of new releases in the back of the store and lugging it towards its designated display case.

Their job is to get the coolest looking records, or the ones that have been most anticipated, and give them their rightful spot in the front, masking all the other records that have been deemed not as worthy while at the same time luring in the customers with esteemed cover art.

Things go smoothly for a while, he and Arat making easy conversation while she hands him the records one at a time, Rick stocking them accordingly.

But then their flow is disrupted- he reaches out for another vinyl and he receives nothing. When he looks over to see what the problem could be, he sees Arat flipping through the records in the box with a look of confusion.

“What's up?” He asks.

“These aren't new releases,” she says wearily, and Ricks brows furrow, because the ones she's been handing him sure have been.

He leans in to survey the bunch, and that's when he sees a dense collection of The Saviors debut and sophomore album, all freshly wrapped in glistening plastic.

Rick hmphs. He's never listened to any of The Saviors music, could never bring himself to do so. Maybe now he could, maybe now he should buy one, just for his collections sake.

Not like he needs any more additions to his collection, it nearly takes up half of the room in his minuscule studio apartment, but still.

The situation at hand seems to remind Arat of something, “Hey, how was your date with that dude I set you up with? Was he nice?”

Rick's face twists, “I mean, yeah, he was nice- cute and all but…” he doesn't want to sound shallow or lame or anything like that, but then he thinks  _fuck it_ , and just says it, “He was wearing a Saviors t-shirt. Not exactly nice to be reminded of your ex while you're out tryin’ to.. replace him, I guess.”

Her lips purse unfortunately, “Yeah… I should've known- Jesus is a big Saviors fan..”

Rick shrugs, “You just can't force these kinds of things, I guess.”

When his shift ends, he takes The Saviors record to the checkout, and puts his employee discount to good use.

But he still can't bring himself to listen to it when he gets back to his apartment.

-

When Negan checked into a rehab center, he knew it wasn't exactly going to be easy.

But he'd already detoxed, already had come to terms with himself and his addiction, knew there was no point in denying he had a problem.

The first few weeks were smooth sailing. Group therapy was a little weird, but it was also very therapeutic.. which was obviously the point, but he hadn't expected sharing his hardships with drugs amongst complete strangers to be so nice, even if they endured the same struggles.

He was always a person who never shared much, and liked to keep the innermost of himself locked away, which was evidenced when it came time to have one on one therapy sessions with a counselor.

All was fine until they asked about his parents. Then he became a little hostile.

He refused to share any information on the matter, and that only intrigued his therapist more once they knew they had found a trigger- an obvious stressor that could potentially make him relapse in the future.

Negan had checked himself out of that rehab center that night. He didn't use even though he wanted to, he prided himself on that, was proud enough about that to show his face to Beth and tell her he didn't think he could make it through the full ten weeks.

When Beth asked her what went wrong, he couldn't tell her. He felt sick with embarrassment. Negan, nearly thirty years of age, still wallowing in his mommy and daddy issues.

He'd always find himself thinking about them, wondering if they had ever heard of his state and if they had, why hadn't they cared enough to try and seek him out, to reconcile, and push him to get clean like most parents would?

In the end, Beth convinced him to continue his treatment and he returned to the clinic.

His therapist coaxed the details of his childhood out of him with patience, and only after Negan made them promise to keep the information off record did he spill. The last thing he needed was someone leaking this out to the media.

But after that, he did feel a little lighter, albeit disorientated.

-

Rick had picked up smoking cigarettes from Arat. They were shitty and gave him a headache but he mostly only did it to talk to Arat when she took her cigarette breaks.

She encouraged him not to, said it was a nasty habit, but Rick thought one every now and then wouldn't hurt.

Now he's a regular smoker, goes up to the roof of his apartment building every night at around eleven to go and have his habitual cigarette. Just one, though- two if he's had a particularly stressful day.

Sometimes he’ll replace those cigarettes with joints, figures if he's gotta smoke he might as well smoke something that's a little more natural.

Rick could never sleep with people casually, still can't do it, not even just to spite Negan somehow, to be able have some material that could incite jealousy if he ever were to see the man again. He feels like smoking cigarettes could be his revenge, his spite.

Even if in the end, he's just hurting himself, he knows Negan would hate to see Rick smoking cigarettes, that it would piss him off and worry him endlessly. Some days all he wants is to be able to incite those emotions from Negan because Lord knows the man has incited all those emotions and more out of him.

Rick looks up at the moon in the sky, full and round, gleaming a cream color that's a tad yellowed- like the pages of an old book. Ochre; he thinks that's the color.

His smoke blows out gray all around him, seeping into his hair and his clothes.

It's cold out, too cold for Texas, Rick thinks.

He's never done good with the cold, has always been one to shiver even when he's burrowed underneath thick blankets with the heat on high.

He's shivering like crazy as he leans over onto the concrete edge of the roof, looking down at the busy city below him.

People are walking, bundled in jackets and boots and scarves.

Rick himself dons a brown, suede jacket with fur trim collar. He’d found it at the goodwill around the block, and though it does it's best to keep him warm, most of the time it's in vain.

He doesn't know why it's so cold this winter. Glenn has eagerly suggested the possibility of snow, which is nothing short of laughable in both Rick and Maggie's eyes.

It hasn't snowed in Austin since 1985.

-

Negan's abscessed arms are now healed, covered in thick scar tissue from wrist to shoulder due to improper self administered injections, the cocaine and heroin leaving it's ugly marks and it's incessant reminder of his deep regrets and his self destructive spiral.

All of his tattoos have either been distorted or concealed with the grafts he's received, and frankly, some of them he's glad to have gone. He wasn't exactly in his right mind when he'd gotten them in the first place.

Everyday, before he puts his leather jacket on, he looks at his arms in the mirror and he thinks about how the doctor had told him had he come in a day later, he most definitely would not have his arms.

Considering he's a guitar player, he's very grateful for Beth's persistence, for her inability to tell when she's annoying people. He tells her as often as he can, and she never gets sick of it.

When he plays his guitar now, he thinks it sounds better.

Nowadays, everything sounds better- _is_ better. He's reconciled with The Saviors and Gary, and he hopes one day they can all jam together again like back in the good old days.

It feels like a breath of fresh air, like a new beginning. They all agree they have to reacquaint themselves with the power of their musical chemistry, but not now. Soon, though.

Negan finds a new place in Santa Monica near Beth. Not a house by the beach, but still very close. He doesn't trust the water that much, but he does find it very calming on nights when he goes for a late walk on the beach, in need of clearing his head.

Lately, he doesn't think about Rick that much, or his parents for that matter. At least not in the way that he used to, not in that obsessive, doting way.

He’ll recall a memory that'll make him happy or sad or indifferent, and he’ll deal with it accordingly at his own pace. It's better than not dealing with it at all.

For the first time since Austin, since Rick,  he feels something like peace flowing through him, and everyday it flows more and more abundantly.

He wonders if this is how Rick must feel, and if he even has the right to go and disrupt this healing process.

But, in the end, his curiosity and his love for Rick has remained the same potent power as always.

-

“So has Beth told you anything about Negan?” Rick asks Maggie as the two of them sit on the latter’s living room floor with little Hershel nearby, attempting to stand on his chubby, baby feet.

He tries his hardest to sound casual, to make the question seem nonchalant, but his tongue wraps a little sweetness around Negan’s name that even he knows cannot be missed.

Maggie’s attention on her son deepens further all of a sudden. There's a critical pause before she answers him.

“No, actually,” she says stiffly, “She still doesn't have a clue about where he could be. Somewhere in California is all they know.”

Rick asks Maggie about Negan frequently, almost daily, and her answers never get any better- never make him feel any better.

‘Somewhere in California’ in Rick’s ears sounds like ‘Dead somewhere in California.’

“Oh,” Rick says, following Maggie's gaze until his eyes land on Hershel, who's supporting himself on the edge of the coffee table, feeling out every object that lay upon it with his little hands.

It makes Rick smile, but it also makes him a little sad.

He wants a baby… at least by thirty. Hopefully he’ll be settled by the age of thirty. Hopefully he'll have met someone he wants to have a baby with by the age of thirty. He’s twenty five now, just turned twenty five in September, so that means Negan is thirty.

Or at least he will be in January, which is just a month away.

A dark thought crosses his mind, suggesting maybe Negan isn't even alive to see the day, and if he is who knows if he'll make it to next month.

What if Negan never made _or_ makes it to thirty?

He has to shove that thought away, has to tell himself Negan is alright even though he's not sure he believes it.

“If she does tell me anythin’, I’ll be sure to tell you,” Maggie promises, offering him a glum smile. Rick thinks he sees a little guilt in there, but he doesn't question it for now.

-

“Anything new on Rick?” Negan asks Beth as they stroll along the beach one late night, bundled in thick layers of clothing.

It's been a cold winter this year, especially for California.

It reminds him a bit of the winters in Washington, although it's much more mild here in the West, much more bearable.

No snow like in Tacoma, no need to wear big puffy sweaters or thick scarves and gloves.

But also no spotted snowmen, no white Christmases, no snowed in days where all you can do is sit by the fireplace and tell stories and talk, just sharing thoughts.

Those are some things Negan misses about cold as shit winter seasons back in Washington.

“He's got a new place down by that old church near the park. Some small studio apartment, Maggie said. He and Glenn are working on screen testing and casting people for their film. Other than that, that's about it.”

Wow, Negan thinks, Rick’s really going somewhere with this whole film thing. He hopes it isn't just a one time thing, just something Glenn had forced him into doing. He hopes Rick actually enjoys doing it, that he's found a way to fully express and grow on his talent.

“Have you told her anything about me?” Negan asks.

“Yeah,” Beth answers carefully, “but not too much. Just told her you went to rehab and stuck to it, and that you've been clean a while.”

“Do you know if she tells Rick about me?”

Beth looks at him pointedly, shutting down his eager, puppy-like look, “You know I'm not even supposed to be tellin’ you peep shit about Rick. I'm just tellin' you because you basically forced me.”

“So that's a no?”

“Yes, it's a no,” she confirms, “We both thought it would be better to keep things separated. Obviously it worked out very one sided.”

“So he knows nothing?”

Beth nods.

“Does he at least know I’m not dead?”

She sighs, “I don't know.”

Negan looks down at his boots as they kick up the sand with each languid step. He slumps for a bit at the thought of Rick walking around thinking he's dead, silently mourning an unconfirmed death, bearing the weight of it on his shoulders.

It would kill him if the roles were reversed, he knows it would.

“Come with me,” Negan says then, “to Austin.”

Beth fish mouths for a second, “I-I can't just _go_ with you.”

“Why the hell not?,” Negan asks, “It’s as fucking easy as yes or no.”

“Then no.”

Negan frowns, “But why!”

“Because! If I show up with _you_ Maggie’s gonna put two and two together, she's gonna find out I've been letting you in on everything and she's gonna kick my ass!”

“Then don't tell her you're coming, just fuckin’ surprise her or some shit… Say you took a fucking plane or what the fuck ever, Beth, it's not that hard,” he argues.

She sighs, becoming frustrated with the thickness of Negan's skull, “Listen, I could fucking travel with the sheer power of my mind, and no matter what, the second she finds out _you're_ back, she's gonna know what's going on.”

Negan deflates, and there's a pause.

Whether he had purposely intended on guilt tripping Beth or not was unknown, but in the end it didn't matter, because it worked either way.

“But…I guess I'll go,” she says, stretched out and hesitant, marking her words with another sigh.

That sure as hell makes Negan's frown go upside down.

“Pack your fucking bags, Bethy,” It's a miracle he can speak around the intensity of his grin, “We’re goin’ to fuckin' Texas.”

-

There's a new girl at the record store named Andrea.

She's got blue hair like half the population of Austin- although Rick can tell by the regrowth at at the top of her head that's she's a natural blonde- wears nothing but black and plaid, and has a bunch of tattoos on her arms and piercings on her face.

Her age is almost indiscernible, really, sometimes she looks seventeen and other times she looks thirty five. (He and Arat have had very elaborate conversations on the matter.)

She doesn't really talk either, the only reason Rick knows her name is because of the name tags.

All she does is… well, her job, but with as little socializing as possible.

She's been working there for almost a month when Rick gets a shift with her, and it's nothing short of awkward, because of course, of all days, _that_ day has to be a slow day.

Rick tried to be friendly, tried to ease the tension with some friendly small talk- which was never really his greatest strength. He asked her if her nostril piercing had hurt and she responded with a monotone, “Whaddya think?” around a chomping mouth full of gum.

That's when Rick decided the CD section was looking a little cluttered and excused himself to go tidy it up.

“Whatever,” was Andrea’s delighted reply.

Then things went back to quiet as Rick began the tedious work of alphabetically organizing the CDs in the Ska/Reggae genre- all he could hear was Andrea chewing her gum, until he became so immersed in his activities he tuned her out.

After what he thought must've been an hour later, he was finally done, and was ready to move on to a different genre with all the time on his hands.

But then he heard music playing, and of course, in a record shop that shouldn't be so baffling, but before his activities there was nothing playing.

And usually, Andrea never played anything: if she's on a shift with Rick or Arat, one of them always chooses the music, but never her.

Rick listened closely to what she was playing, trying to see if he could recognize anything.

He couldn't, but it did sound pretty modern, and after only a few seconds of listening, he found himself really kind of… moved.. Or maybe just understood? Who knows, but he feels something that makes him listen undividedly until the song is over.

_Know when you're gone I struggle at night_

_Dreams of you fucking me all the time_

_And I know you're tied up_

_And I know your phones fucked_

_I'm craving your call like a soldiers wife_

_I wanna bring you home myself_

_Bring you home myself_

_And I'm so impatient when you're not mine_

_I just wanna catch up on all the lost time_

_And I'll say I'm sorry if I sound sordid_

_but all I really ever want is you._

“What song was that?” Rick asks the girl who's now lounging with her feet up on the counter, leaning back in her chair.

“Why do you care?”

Rick rolls his eyes, “Because… I like it.”

Now Andrea rolls her eyes, as if she has any reason to. Then she grabs the sleeve of the record, tossing it to him like a frisbee.

He catches it easily, which surprises even him.

“It's called _Hourglass_ ,” she says as Ricks eyes study the album art, he notices a tinge of melancholy in her tone.

It's just a simple line drawing of two people with their hands down each other's pants.

Interesting.

“My boyfriend used to sing this song to me,” Andrea shares.

Rick's eyebrows nearly shot up, because holy shit she really just shared something about herself.

It was pretty personal, too.

“Yeah?” Rick says, “Was he a musician or something?”

“Yeah,” she nods, but she rolls her eyes, “Played guitar for this really shitty band called The One Eyed Man. They were kinda big around Austin, but I'll never understand why.”

Rick shrugs, “Never heard of ‘em.”

She laughs righteously. “Yeah, well the fame got to his fucking head and he cheated on me with some D-list model.”

Rick blinks incredulously.

“It's alright though cause I fucked his best friend, and now I've got a kickass girlfriend.”

“That's…good,” Rick begins, and then says, because he doesn't want the conversation to fall (sure, _that's_ why), “I used to date someone who was in a band.”

“They from around here? Maybe I've heard of ‘em.”

“Um, yeah… Ever heard of The Saviors?”

Andrea takes in a sharp breath, and Rick can almost hear how her gum goes flying down her throat, getting lodged in her pipes. He watches from afar as she chokes out her words, a cough rattling her speech.

“Holy shit… Fuck.. Who hasn't.. heard.. of them??”

She spits her gum out and it goes flying across the room.

Rick laughs at that, never mind the fact he almost killed her.

“Who the fuck did you date from The Saviors, you lying ass?”

“Negan.”

“What the fuck?!” She nearly shouts, taking a moment to absorb things before she says, now much calmer, “What in the actual burning hell… Prove it..”

“Do you really think I'm pathetic enough to lie about something like that?”

“Hell yeah I do… Shit, I would.”

Rick stands pensively for a second, trying to find out how he can prove such a thing.

He can't really think of anything. Well, he has pictures at home, but that's about it, and the pictures on his phone are just of Negan- nothing of them together, nothing to prove they were together.

“Just ask Arat or Simon, okay, they saw it all.”

She eyes him for a second.

“I guess I trust you..”

“Um.. thanks?”

There's a silence before she asks, “So if you _were_ together, why'd you two break up?”

Rick feels something dull wash over him, and he decides this really isn't the type of conversation to be having with someone he barely started speaking to ten minutes ago.

He puts on a polite smile that feels too heavy to keep up, “Maybe I’ll tell you next time we have a shift together… if you decide you can still speak more than one damn word by then.”

She gives a single amused chuckle, but lets up on her haughtiness, “Fair game.”

-

Being back in Austin is so fucking weird after being away for so long.

It's like coming home- even though Negan knows it's not his hometown. Shit, it might as well be.

He drives down all the familiar streets- streets he used to busk on, streets he would walk down on nights when he was in his early twenties and didn't have a ride back home from the bar, streets he'd carelessly smoke joints on as he made his way to late night shows.

He passes by the record store, and for a second it feels like he's just giving Beth a ride to work like he would way back when. He thinks Beth can feel that feeling, too, it's like they're sharing it as they sit silently in the van.

Negan passes by his and Rick's old apartment, and it still doesn't hit him that he's going to be seeing Rick any minute now. He sees the old couple are still there, lounging on plastic chairs, hand in hand, and he already hears the song they must be listening to even if he can't actually hear it.

It's when he passes by the mural of Rick's face, driving real slow so that he can examine it carefully, that it finally hits him.

He's going to see Rick in the flesh, after more than five fucking years. A bundle of nerves explodes within his stomach, and he can't shake them away.

He had never gotten to see the finished product of the mural because The Saviors left for their first actual tour just before it could be completed.

But two albums, two tours, and one nasty drug addiction later and he's finally returned, and now there's tourists waiting for their turns to take pictures with his ex-boyfriends graphic face. That's a little weird, but also pretty funny. There's no doubt Rick probably thinks it's funny, too.

“Drop me off at my Dad’s house,” Beth says, breaking the silence, “I wanna see him first… before Maggie murders me in front of my nephew, who I’ve yet to meet, and Glenn.”

Negan obeys her dramatic orders, and the quiet resumes.

It’s almost like Beth can tell what’s on Negan’s mind, because when he’s parked in her driveway, just about to say his goodbyes, she speaks up again.

“I just-” she sighs, looking down at her seatbelt and trying to gain coherence, “It’s been a long time, Negan. He could be with a different person. _He_ could be a different person.”

“I know.”

She gives him a half smile. Crushing his spirits was not her intention. “I just don’t want you to get your hopes up.”

He nods, he understands, he gets it. His resolve doesn’t dwindle, however, though his nerves grow abundantly.

“Just tell me where he lives.”

She leaves him with all the information he needs and a sad smile that Negan doesn’t want, but still takes.

When he gets to Rick’s apartment building, he surprised he actually recognizes it, has walked by it many times and dubbed it ‘the apartments next to the Pentecostal church with the super loud choir’. There’s no service going on right now, so it’s quiet, but it’s a Sunday so he’s sure there’s bound to be some music soon.

Rick lives on the fourth floor in apartment B17. He stands outside the door for a long, long time, kind of zoned out, but he returns after a while.

Rick could not even be home, he thinks. But shit, what if he is? What is he gonna say? What the fuck _can_ he say? When he lets all of his suggestions run through his head, none of them seem good enough.

“Fuck it.” He mutters, and just fucking knocks.

-

Rick’s been living in his apartment for a little over two months and with his hours at the record store and all of the work that he and Glenn are putting into their film, he just hasn’t found the time to organize his records.

They’ve been lying in their cardboard boxes, some all around the floor depending on if he’d put one of them on for a spin- which is really not ideal when you live in less than five hundred square feet of space- just waiting to be stocked away in that special shelf Rick bought especially for them at IKEA.

When he wakes up late on a gloomy Sunday afternoon, off from work and having received a text from Glenn stating they can’t meet today, he figures today must be the day.

The first thing he does when he gets out of bed is make himself a cup of coffee, and then he turns the heat up. Then he texts Noah, because he should be in town either today or tomorrow, and he’s bringing Tara. He figures if it’s today they could hang out and Rick could show them around the city.

Rick hopes it’s today. He doesn’t exactly enjoy being alone.

Sure, just like anyone else, Rick enjoys his space, likes having his alone time. It’s just that sometimes, most of the time, he feels more lonely than alone, and it takes a lot to push that feeling away. Most of the time, he’ll just let himself wallow in it. He figures it’ll wear itself out all on its own if he just lets himself feel it, but after a while of using that method, the feeling proved itself unending.

Now he’s learned to distract himself from that feeling.

He puts on a record, The Strokes _Future Present Past_ EP- he’s been listening to it a lot lately, _Threat of Joy_ in particular- and begins sorting through his collection with a sigh because he has no idea where to begin.

He could go in alphabetical order, he could go by genre, he could go by release date, he could have no means of organization at all and just put them wherever- the possibilities are endless.

In the end, he chooses alphabetical, because he’s not good at memorizing dates and it’s hard to pin down the genre of some artists he has in his collection.

The whole ordeal takes a while, because Rick passes by an album, decides he wants to listen to it, puts it on, and he ends up lying on the floor for the duration of the record, bathing in the music. Rinse, repeat, and before he knows it the already dim sunlight that had been seeping through his sheer curtains has faded greatly, and the room around him is a cool shadow.

He’s barely halfway done with the B section when he gets a text from Noah saying he and Tara have just gotten into town, which makes him giddy with excitement. He gives them his address and his room number, and rushes to get things done.

But then he lands upon The Beatles _White Album_ , and he slows down once again, staring at the off white shade of the cover. Dirty in color, but pristine in everything else. He puts it on, telling himself he can listen while he works, but he just ends up lying on the floor again, staring up at the ceiling.

He’s in the middle of _Helter Skelter_ when a knock on his front door pulls him out of his thick reverie.

Must be Tara and Noah, he thinks as he picks himself up off the floor to go answer it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading! Hope you all enjoyed, and as always, feedback and constructive criticism are more than welcome. :) <3  
> my original plan was for this fic to be like a 5+1 kinda thing like 5 years rick n negan were apart plus the one they got back together or something but....THAT didn't work out and now here we are at ten chapters.


	11. Look Out! Helter Skelter!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i figured i should post this chapter a lil earlier as an apology for the cliffhanger..  
> Songs mentioned in this chapter include:  
> 'Helter Skelter' by The Beatles (again!)

The door opens in front of Negan, quick and sudden, and he hears Rick speaking, sees a blur of all of his shades of flesh and hair and clothes before he actually sees him.

“I didn’t expect you guys to be here so…”

Rick looks up at him, absolutely godsmacked, eyes wide and blue and full of shock. Negan’s missed those eyes so much. It almost feels like a dream to see them now.

He watches as the color leaves Rick’s face, as his jaw goes slack, a pensive crease forming between the boy’s brows.

He’s wearing a fucking ‘Vote For Pedro’ t- shirt, Negan notes, and it’s about three sizes too fucking big. It doesn’t look like he’s wearing pants either and Negan has to tear his eyes away from his legs for the sake of his own sanity and his quickening heart rate.

When he looks back up at Rick’s face, their eyes locking, it takes a moment for him to find his voice again. Rick still hasn’t rediscovered his.

Music pours out through the door. Negan recognizes it immediately: it's the Beatles.

Of all fucking things Negan could say, all he can manage is a meager, “Howdy.”

Perhaps it wasn’t the best thing to say, because then Rick’s eyes start glazing over, shiny and wet, and his bottom lip starts quivering.

It absolutely breaks Negan’s heart, all the while putting him on the edge of his rocky nerves.

“Hey, hey- Rick, I-” his voice is gentle and cautious, but he doesn’t get to finish,  because before he knows it, Rick is leaping into his arms, cutting off his stream of weary words with the smoosh of his soft lips against Negan’s, tangling his fingers into the older man’s hair.

Negan tries his best to reciprocate, tries to keep their lips moving in that old, familiar rhythm, tries to savor the taste of Rick’s mouth as he grips fiercely onto his thighs- but his knees buckle underneath Rick’s sturdy weight; he’s not as strong as he used to be.

“Rick, I- I can’t,” he warns between the heady swirl of Rick’s tongue, just as his legs give in and they fall forwards onto the floor, Rick on his back and Negan on his knees, straddling the boy.

Rick is unphased, desperate and needy in his actions as he pulls Negan back down towards him, tilting his head to the side and sucking on his neck.

Kiss, kiss, kiss, suck, lap, suck, kiss: it becomes a pattern, an art- and Negan gets lost in it entirely, a drawn out moan slipping from his lips like it’s a song.

“Close the door,” Rick orders, voice impassive and urgent when he finally unlatches his lips from Negan’s skin, only to get his hands on the man’s belt, shaky as they try their best to unbuckle, unbutton and unzip.

Negan complies, shutting the door behind them before he helps Rick out, leaning into the boy who’d already been down to his underwear when he’d arrived so he can shrug out of his jeans.

“Kiss my neck,” Rick commands direly, like his life depends on it, ushering Negan’s head towards the long stretch of pale skin, “ _Please_ , kiss my neck.”

It’s then Negan realizes how close they are, how his lips are only inches away from such intimate parts of Rick’s body. They haven’t been this close in so long. Only in their dreams.

Negan plants a gentle kiss to the boy’s neck, just to get the feel of it, to savor him. He feels how Rick shivers underneath him, can almost feel how his breath hitches in the throat his lips are tending to.

“I missed you,” Negan whispers into his skin, punctuating his words with a sharp suck to his neck. He can feel how his pulse quickens beneath his lips.

Rick shushes him, shifting under the sudden intensity of Negan’s mouth.

Negan grabs a handful of Rick’s t-shirt, rucking it up over his hips to reveal the top of his lean thighs, and the deep navy blue of his boxer briefs. He runs his hand up underneath the thin, white cotton, smoothing one hand over the warm, warm skin of his side as the other clutches at the boy’s hip, gripping his flesh with such intensity.

Rick’s hands are in his hair, fingers combing and scratching and pulling as pleasured hums leave his lips with heaving breaths, buzzing against Negan's mouth.

Negan kisses all the way up his neck and his jaw, past his chin and his cheek and the corner of his mouth, until their lips meet again, wet and urgent, producing sounds that travel straight to Negan’s groin.

When they pull apart it’s because Rick’s pulling his shirt over his head. Once it's tossed aside, Negan’s gentle attack resumes, this time focusing on the pale chest underneath his nose- the chest that he’s been cuddled into on many occasions, the chest he’s laughed into, cried into, moaned into, and used as a pillow for nearly three months once upon a time.

He plants a kiss to the center of its broadness, right where he assumes Rick’s heart should be, doting and patient, before he continues his path all the way down the trail of hair that grows thicker and coarser down his stomach as it meets with the waistband of Rick’s underwear.

His hands migrate to Rick's hips, digging his fingers into the firmness of his ass suggestively before he looks up at Rick, who’s look of desire and lust looks utterly conflicted.

In the silence between them, the music prevails.

_Do you don't you want me to love you?_

_Coming down fast but I'm miles above you._

_Tell me, tell me, tell me._

_Cmon tell me the answer._

_Well you may be a lover but you ain't no dancer._

It takes a second, but then Rick's lifting his hips up in the air, inviting Negan to undress him fully.

Negan's pulling them off, exposing the thick, curly hair all on his groin, barely baring the hilt of his strained cock-

“ _Waitwaitwait_ ,” Rick sputters, and Negan removes his hands immediately, letting them rest idly on Rick's hips.

When he looks up at the boy, he sees him on the verge of tears yet again, and his heart sinks.

Rick's shaking his head profusely, face growing red as tears fill his eyes to the brim. “I can't do it,” he says, almost like he's embarrassed, and before Negan can even think to say anything, Rick's sliding out from under him to get to his feet, making his way to what he can only assume is the restroom..

Negan sits there on the floor like a fool for a while, giving Rick his time, barely able to imagine what must be going through his head.

The music continues.

_When I get to the bottom I go back to the top of the slide_

_Where I stop and I turn and I go for a ride_

_Til I get to the bottom and I see you again_

He surveys his surroundings: sees a pile of records not too far from him, messy on the floor, sees a lone mattress in the corner of the room, sees a poster of Eddie Vedder on the wall. (Rick likes Pearl Jam now, huh) There's other posters, too, not just Eddie Vedder. Negan sees flyers for film festivals, for Glenn's private short film screenings.

He laughs in disbelief when he sees the red vinyl loveseat from their old apartment next to the bed, the only thing separating the two pieces of furniture being a meager nightstand. The couch sticks out like a sore thumb. How Rick got his hands on it is a mystery to him.

Negan gets to his feet and puts his pants back on. He grabs Rick's shirt and takes the one step needed to reach the bathroom door.

He knocks, immediately hearing sniffles on the other side of the door. He can practically see Rick frantically wiping his eyes, checking himself in the mirror.

“Uh, gimme a minute,” Rick says, and Negan can tell by the tone in his voice that his predictions were correct.

A moment passes and Rick steps out, shy and shirtless. Negan hands him his shirt and he flushes a bit, mumbling a sheepish thank you before he slips it back on.

Negan tries not to watch him too carefully, but Rick is still so fucking mesmerizing after all these years- _especially_ after all these years.  

Rick runs a hand through his hair, tucking a curl behind his ear as he looks down at his bare feet.

“I was- I… I started thinking maybe you were dead,” Rick confesses, voice breaking on the last word, releasing another wave of tears.

Before Negan can even think twice about it, he's pulling Rick into a hug, snaking his arms tight around his middle.

Rick buries his face into Negan's shoulder to cry, letting himself be held.

“It's okay, baby,” Negan whispers, “I’m okay.”

Negan can count all the times he's seen Rick cry on one hand.

The first time was when he had been an asshole and read Rick's journal- those were angry tears, though.

The second time was when they first made love- those were happy tears, good tears.

The third time was when they'd gotten into an argument after Rick had found the tour dates on the coffee table- those were sad tears, maybe a little angry, too.

And the fourth time was right before Rick had hopped out of his van right in the middle of a sad fucking song- again, sad tears.

Now, the fifth time, he's not sure what kind of tears these are. Happy, sad, or angry, he's not sure.

Maybe they're confused tears. Surprised tears.

Even when Rick has been reduced to sniffles once again, they don't pull apart.

Negan presses a kiss to Rick's temple, and he thinks he feels a kiss being pressed to his shoulder, though it's nearly undetectable with the layers he's wearing.

They're forced apart when a knock sounds from the front door.

“ _Shit_ ,” Rick mutters, detangling himself from Negan as he goes to put on a pair of pants.

Negan remembers Beth's words, _He could be with someone else_ , and he shrinks in his own skin.

“Were you expecting someone?” Negan asks, hoping Rick doesn't notice the edge in his tone.

“Yes,” Rick answers hurriedly, “and it definitely wasn't you.”

Negan's not sure how to respond to that, just watches as Rick rushes to the door with both dread and elation somehow.

He opens the door only partially, greets someone with a warmth he didn't exactly receive.

When he hears another man's voice on the other side of it, a jealousy grows inside of him. It's a sad, timid kind of jealousy, accompanied by a _shit, I'm too late_ kind of disappointment.

“Can we come in?” A female voice asks, chipper and excited.

Negan furrows his brow at that, watches as Rick stiffens.

“Um, it's not exactly the best time, right now,” he explains, sparing a lingering glance at Negan before his gaze returns to the people outside the door, “I know I invited you guys over, but-”

“Oh my God, dude, are you getting some right now?” The male voice asks incredulously, with a pride that's nearly excited.

“Look at his face! He's freakin’ getting some!” The female voice chips in, and Negan hears the slapping of skin- like a high five.

“It's about time, my dude,” The male voice laughs, “Pink or stink?”

“Five bucks it's stink,” The female voice says.

Negan stifles a laugh as Rick flushes deeply, “Look guys, it _really_ isn't a good time-”

“And why isn't it, Ricky?” Negan speaks up, stepping in closer to Rick and wrapping an arm around his waist, revealing himself.

Rick's friends jaws drop when they catch sight of him. They either know about the Saviors, or know about him, Negan concludes.

Or both.

Things are silent for a while and then Rick pushes Negan away.

The girl blinks, “... Told you it was stink.”

-

“Rick, you wanna tell us what the hell is going on?” Noah asks after he, Tara, and Rick make their way down the staircase, venturing to the parking lot and most importantly, away from Negan who’s still up in Rick’s apartment. “You wanna tell us why your ex man who’s a damn celebrity drug addict is up in your apartment getting all touchy feely with you?”

“Yeah,” Tara adds, “How long has he been with you? How long has this been going on?”

“Why didn’t you tell us, Rick??”

“You know you don't have to hide shit from us. We’re you're friends, man.”

“I didn’t know, okay- I,” Rick sighs, standing barefoot before his friends. He’s a complete fucking mess, in looks and in state, but that heavy feeling in his gut has the faintest warmth. Negan is alive. “He came literally minutes before you guys. I answered the door thinkin’ it was you two and it was him and- and I just, I don’t… fucking know. I don’t fucking know! I don’t know how he found my apartment or my room number or how he knew I was in Austin- I- I just don’t know!”

Rick didn’t realize he’d been raising his voice until the silence returns and it’s much more deafening than usual.

“Wow, dude…” Tara breathes, “He just popped in on you like that? That’s heavy.”

Rick tilts his head, “You’re tellin’ me.”

“... He saw you in that shirt?” Noah asks, voice gaining lightness the longer he studies Rick’s Sunday ensemble. “Man, if you were wearing that when you opened the door, I’m gonna have to guess you _didn’t_ get any.”

The three of them are stifling laughter as Rick looks down at the shirt Glenn had gotten him for his birthday. Obviously his friend didn't know his size.

He flushes so hard it stings.

In the heat of things, Rick had forgotten just how ridiculous he looks. How he managed to be dressed like he is and still get to second base with Negan only seconds after laying eyes on each other is beyond him.

“Shut up,” Rick says, but there’s no heat. In fact, he’s laughing.

-

Rick jogs up the staircase to his apartment with butterflies whirring around in his stomach. He half expects to open the door and see no one in there, just the same old crowdedness, same old coldness and the same old mess- but no.

Behind the door is Negan, sitting alongside the records Rick had left on the ground, right in front of the shelf that’s supposed to be holding all of them in organized harmony.

When he gets closer he sees the records Negan has before him, all B’s: The Box Tops, Bob Dylan, Buffalo Springfield, The Butthole Surfers, Buddy Guy, The Byrds.

“You were organizing them?” Negan asks, and the sound of his voice startles him even more now that his head is clear… Well, clearer. Still not exactly clear.

His voice is deep and almost lazy, loud even when he means to be quiet- just like now.

Rick swallows, “Yeah, I-” he clears his throat, “I was.”

With that Negan gathers the records he’d been nursing and puts them on the shelf, right next to where Rick had last left off.

“You don’t have to do that,” Rick says, “I can do it sometime else.”

Negan shrugs, continuing his actions, “It’s fun.”

Rick feels his lips twitch with the warning of a smile, but it’s only a twitch and nothing else comes. He just wants to bend down and pull Negan into his arms, hold him tight against his chest and never let him leave his sights again because he could’ve fucking lost him forever. He could still lose him.

But he knows he can’t do that, _won’t_ let himself do that. He can’t get too lost, but he's afraid he'll blink and Negan will be gone, that this is all just one huge delusion and he's going mad.

Either way, he settles for sitting cross legged beside Negan on the floor, reaching over to bring a box of records between them.

Rick feels the warmth of Negan on his skin when their knees touch, even though the man is wearing jeans. It’s enough to leave him searing.

And Negan doesn't vanish in thin air at the contact like Rick had feared.

“Those people, they your friends?” Negan asks after they’ve stocked up to E.

“Yeah, Tara and Noah,” Rick says quietly, almost stiffly, “From back home. They came to visit.”

“And you sent them away?” Rick senses a bit of amusement in his voice.

“They weren’t gonna stay here in the first place,” Rick explains, “They’re staying at some motel a couple blocks from here.”

Negan says nothing else, though Rick wishes he would. There's so much they need to talk about, so much Rick wants to know. They've been apart for so long, lived so differently- but everything feels nearly the same. Rick wonder if that's good or bad.

He looks up at Negan, and all he sees is the side of his face, dressed in thick stubble. When he looks closer he sees little scars dotting his face here and there, but they’re faded. His cheekbones are a little sharper- his entire form is a little bit scrawnier, he notes; Negan couldn't support Rick's weight like he used to- but he looks healthy.

Then again, what does Rick know?

He doesn’t realize how long he’s been staring until Negan turns and meets his eyes. A soft smirk meets the older man’s lips, and it’s a faint glimpse of the Negan that Rick used to call his own.

“See somethin’ you like, babe?” He asks, and while his voice is still teasing, it’s not sharp or brash like it normally would be.

It’s not a bad thing though, but Rick’s hardly ever seen Negan be even this shy.

Rick smiles timidly, looking down at his lap as a blush tints his cheeks. He shakes his head, but not to answer Negan’s question, just because.

“And you?” Rick asks finally, “Why are you here? How long have you been in Austin?”

The lightness about Negan's face falls and he returns his attention towards the records, “I’ve been here maybe an hour tops… and why do you think, Rick? I know you’re not an idiot.”

Rick furrows his brow, “Don’t talk to me like that,” he says firmly.

Negan steals a glance at him, an apology laden in his eyes. “Sorry,” he mumbles, then says, clearer, to the album in his hands, “I wanted to see you. Beth’s been… telling me everything. Everything Maggie’s told her. But she wasn’t telling you about me, and I didn’t want you to worry about me, or think I was still on fucking drugs or.. dead.”

“Oh,” Is all Rick can say. So he's not on drugs…

But what if he's lying? Can he really trust Negan? It hurts him that he has to ask himself that, but it's not unreasonable to have to think that way.

For now he dismisses those inquiries, then he gulps and asks, “Are you staying somewhere?”

Negan shakes his head, sheepishly adding, “I was thinking maybe I could… stay here?”

His eyes widen, “With me?”

Negan nods carefully.

Rick fish mouths, “I mean… I- I do-”

“I can sleep on the couch,” Negan tacks on, in case it makes a difference, “The floor, even. Hell, I’ll sleep in the fucking kitchen.. It’s only a fucking footstep away.”

Rick should say no. He knows he should. No means he’s standing his ground, No means he’s keeping his promise to himself to put himself first, that he's being cautious with his trust.

But he doesn’t want to say no.

No could mean a cold bed, with cold sheets, a cold apartment with creaky floorboards and squeaky mice (not confirmed, but he’s pretty sure) and him reliving all of his past memories late at night when he can’t sleep, tossing and turning and shivering.

He doesn’t want to say no, and so he doesn’t.

“Okay,” Rick almost whispers, nodding softly, “On the couch.” He's got to have some boundaries, right?

A smile lights up Negan’s face, and Rick can’t help but to reciprocate just the slightest.

“Speaking of that couch,” Negan begins, looking over at it, “How the fuck did you even get it?”

Rick flushes redder than the squeaky vinyl furniture itself. “Passed by the old apartment, and it was out on the side of the road. I may’ve asked Glenn to help me haul it back over here.”

Negan huffs a laughs, “Rick Grimes… I-” he shuts his mouth, and there’s a subtle nuance in his tone, in his skin, “You just fucking astound me.”

-

“Ok, but fucking seriously,” Negan begins for the umpteenth time that night, tossing and turning and inciting the jaw clenching sound of leather against the vinyl couch that’s not even two feet away from Rick. “How do you sleep in this shit hole? Do you even sleep?? I can’t even sleep! It’s fucking cold as all fucking fuck and I swear to shit I hear like three- maybe four- mice fucking like there’s no tomorrow inside the damn wall, like what the _fuck?!_ Are these even humane living conditions??”

It’s safe to say Negan’s shyness has withered away alongside the night’s youth, and frankly, Rick thinks maybe he’d be amused if it wasn’t so late and if he wasn’t so goddamn exhausted.

“Maybe if you took your jacket off you’d be more comfortable,” Rick suggests in a tired monotone, “Sorry this ain't no Beverly Hills bachelor pad.”

Negan pauses for a long second, but before it can get awkward, he speaks again, “First of all, I could never afford shit in Beverly Hills. Second, did you not hear when I said it was cold as all fucking fuck? Taking off my jackets just gonna make it fucking worse… And third, none of that does shit about Minnie and Mickey’s fucking swingers party inside your goddamn wall.”

Rick sighs exasperatedly, “Then just ignore it.”

“I can’t!”

“Well, try!”

Negan huffs. Rick can almost see him crossing his arms over his chest like an indignant little kid. He can hear it faintly too, the light scrub of leather on leather.

“Hey,” Negan calls, much calmer, feigning his nonchalance, “What if I were to… oh, I don't know, climb in there with ya?”

Rick rolls over to face him, and sees him staring up at the ceiling, sees his too long legs dangling of the too small couch. “You’re kidding right?” It’s half teasing, half an actual question.

Negan cranes his neck to meet his gaze, his nose scrunching up in a way that makes Rick wanna giggle. “Depends. Are you saying yes or no?”

Rick rolls away from him with a smirk, “I’m saying no.”

Negan frowns, Rick can hear it in his voice, “C’mon! We might as well be in the same fucking bed! I reach my hand out and I could pick your fucking nose I’m that close!”

Rick’s smirk deepens as he stays quiet. He thinks it should startle him that it feels this comfortable already, that they’re already bickering and prodding like five years never passed. It does when he’s thinking straight, but right now he’s not. He’s too busy relishing in Negan.

In the sound of his voice and all of its tones, in his face and his form and his leather. It’s suffocating him and he likes it. He’s been craving it.

So what if they delay the seriousness of it all?

“And don’t think I can’t hear the way your fucking teeth have been chattering, this apartment is literally the size of a fucking jail cell. I know you’re cold, I am too.”

“And what can you do about that?” Rick teases, still not facing him, grinning foolishly into the duvet wrapped around himself like a giggly schoolboy.

“I can warm you up, baby.”

Rick can feel the smugness radiating off of the man, and it thrills him like nothing else. It makes him giddy, makes him warm.

“C’mere then,” Rick finally says, and he can’t hide the smile in his voice.

Negan gets up off the couch as quick as a damn lightning bolt, bringing his blanket with him. He covers them both with it as he all but jumps into the mattress beside Rick, squeezing into the full size bed with him.

All the cheekiness dissolves when they’re face to face on their sides, and while Rick looks into Negan’s eyes, clean of the black smudges of makeup, he feels something like regret- but it’s lighter, and much more forgiving.

Rick wonders what Negan is thinking, and he’s sure it goes both ways.

“Take off your jacket,” He whispers, sliding a chaste arm down his sleeve. It’s not an invitation for sex, but for him to make himself comfortable.

Negan stiffens, musters up a gentle shake of the head.

It’s then Rick realizes what could be hiding under there. Negan could still be using, he thinks, could be lying about being off drugs.

His regret shifts into something much more gut wrenching.

He looks up at Negan, and tries not to let his worry contort his face. He rests a hand on his cheek, running it along the long prickliness of his stubble before he goes to move the strands of dark hair out of his face.

Negan’s eyes flutter closed, looking completely at peace as Rick leans in and plants a kiss on his forehead, soft and gentle.

Then Negan’s eyes open and they land on Rick’s mouth.

That's when Rick rolls away from him, distancing himself, “No funny business,” he states, having to gain some kind of ground before he gets out of hand.

It almost sounds like he’s telling himself more than he is Negan, however.

“You got it, boss,” Negan says, though he sounds less than delighted.

They both know they’re lucky to have one another in the same bed again, they can’t ask for much more.

So they sleep back to back with no fuss about it.

-

Rick wakes up only to find he and Negan have somehow intertwined during the night.

Negan’s head is underneath Rick’s chin and pressed against his chest, and while Rick has an arm slung over Negan’s side, Negan has his arms wound around Rick’s middle and a thigh between Rick's legs.

It’s the way they used to sleep years ago, the comfiest way.

He’s sure this wasn’t intentional, sure Negan didn’t do this on his own. It’s muscle memory, Rick justifies, even though this certain muscle hasn’t been used in a very long time.

That’s just what he has to tell himself so he can enjoy it for a little longer.

Only a little though, because after a while his regret resurfaces, slapping him guilty in the face, and he has to pull away. Negan’s a heavy sleeper, or at least was, but Rick is still gentle, untangling every limb like they’re sparse hair on a baby’s head.

Then he’s free, and he decides he _really_ needs a cigarette.

He grabs his pack from the top drawer in his night stand, puts on some sweats and his fur trimmed jacket, slips on his boots, and sneaks out to the roof of the apartment building.

When he gets there, the sky is light and overcast, its shine weak and fragile, and Rick can hear music playing from the church just to his left. He hears loud, rich voices bellowing in harmony, and holy instruments like the organ and the piano.

It's freezing out, but he figures he’s earned himself that cold bite, so he sucks it up. He slept too warm last night.

He lights his cigarette with shivering hands, sticks the thing between his dry, chapped lips and lets himself enjoy it.

His smoke and his breath come out gray, morphing as one in the unrelenting cold.

Rick leans over the edge of the roof, watches the people like he always does. He sees middle aged citizens walking to work with warm coffee in cups that emit steam like ready working trains. He sees homeless people, wandering without hope or direction, and he frowns.

There’s not very many people today, however. He figures the cold must have something to do with that.

Rick’s lit his fourth cigarette and is just beginning to make a dent in it when it’s snatched from between his lips.

He watches as the thief’s hand stubs it against the cement edge of the roof, and throws it over.

“Don’t smoke those fucking cancer sticks. They’ll just turn your fucking lungs black.” Negan’s voice is tense and annoyed, with a hint of sleep. His jaw is set tight.

Rick feels a small victory knowing he was right, but it's overpowered by his strict annoyance.

“Fuck you,” Rick mutters, pulling his pack out of his pocket and digging for another, only to find that was his last one. He groans, “Man, fuck you!” He says to Negan, who is unfazed.

He shrugs, “You’ll thank me later.”

“I could just go buy another pack, you know.”

Negan sighs deeply, leans over the edge just as Rick had been doing, and looks around at the view.

“I kicked heroin, I kicked coke, and I kicked cigarettes, and of all fucking three the only one I still crave to the point of relapse is the damn cigs.”

Rick scoffs, because fuck Negan for trying to guilt him with something that could be a fucking lie. “Yeah, alright,” he retorts sourly.

Negan's eyes narrow, his face setting placid, “You got something you wanna say to me, Rick? Anything? Don't hold back, throw it right at me. I'm a big boy, I can fucking take it.”

“Fuck you,” Rick spits, “You think you can come back into my life by telling me some bullshit lies about you being clean? What do you want from me, Negan? If it's money, I don't have much. If it's a place to stay, find some place else. If it's sex.. If it's sex, go fuck yourself. You can't lie to me anymore- I won't let you, so if that's all you're gonna do, you can go burn in hell. I was doing just fine without you, and it can still be that way. I’ll survive just fine.”

Negan's face twists in defense, puckers with anger, “You think I'm lying to you about being clean?”

“I do.”

“Ten weeks,” Negan begins, and the frustration boils over in his eyes as he frowns furiously, “Ten _fucking weeks_ for _you!-”_

“Don't you try to guilt me!” Rick warns carefully, dangerously calm. He meets Negan's eyes and his lip quivers, “If you got clean for _me_ , you're a fucking idiot. You get clean for _you_ not _me!_ You get clean for me, and the second you don't have me you fall back again- so you get clean for _you_.”

Negan goes quiet. Rick watches his anger deflate as he clenches and unclenches his jaw, sees his eyes defrost and glaze over.

“It wasn't all for you,” he says, “It was but… it was just as much for me as it was for you. I wanted to be in the right head space before I just came here, but I guess I’m still not.”

He sounds sincere, but Rick is still hesitant nonetheless. His eyes fall on the sleeves of Negan's jacket.

“Take off the jacket. Please.”

“Fuck you, Rick. If you don't believe me, that's your fucking problem, not mine. I don't have to prove shit to you.”

“If you're gonna be staying with me, then yeah, you do,” He remarks, “But feel free to leave.” It hurts him to say, especially when Negan has just returned. He only hopes he’ll comply.

“Fuck you, Rick. You can be a real fucking bitch sometimes,” He shrugs off his jacket with buckets of attitude, harshly tossing the leather at Rick. The other swears he sees the slightest shade of embarrassment color Negan's cheeks. “This what you wanted to see?!” He yells, and Rick's eyes fall onto his arms. They looks like they're covered in burns, the skin thick and textured, whirs of fleshy pink and pasty white “All my disgusting fucking ugly ass scars? What else do I gotta show you so that you'll believe me? Cause that's all I fucking got. It's all I fucking am.”

Now Rick feels like shit. Looking at his arms is seeing the extent of his problem, seeing the struggle and the recovery. He has no doubt now that Negan's not lying, and he feels like shit for making him uncomfortable.

He grabs Negan's hand, invites him in closer. When he runs his fingers along the expanse of his wrist, all the way to the sleeve of his t-shirt, Negan squirms.

Rick meets his eyes, trying to will away the man's tension with a reassuring glance. It works in a way. Negan lets him continue to touch.

“This is who you were, not who you are,” Rick says softly, still gazing into his eyes. He raises Negan's arm to his lips, plants a trail of kisses from his forearm to the white cotton of his t-shirt.

He presses his forehead against his shoulder, “and I loved you even then.”

Negan wraps his arms tightly around Rick, the both of them melting into the embrace. He kisses the top of his head, “I love you, too. Could never stop.”

They stay like that for a while, until Negan feels tiny little bites of cold nipping at his already freezing skin.

Rick feels it too on the back of his neck, and they pull away enough to look at each other in mutual confusion.

That's when Rick sees a small, white flake fall onto Negan's eyelashes, making him blink furiously.

It's snowing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading! I hope you enjoyed and as always, feedback and constructive criticism are more than welcome. <333  
> (yall usually classes start up for ppl and their updates get slower but i started classes this week n it lit a fire under my fukn ass like... im on fire. its only the third day into the semester tho so...)


	12. Just Like Me, They Long To Be Close To You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs mentioned in this chapter include:  
> 'Christmas Treat' by Julian Casablancas  
> 'Christmas Will Break Your Heart' by LCD Soundsystem  
> (theres actually a lot of xmas songs im not gonna list em all sorry )  
> '(They Long To Be) Close To You' by Bobby Womack  
> 'That's The Way I Feel About You' by Bobby Womack

They sleep in the same bed all the time now.

Tara and Noah find it odd, and they ask Rick where things stand between him and Negan. Frankly, Rick's not sure, but it doesn't bother him as much as it could- as much as he knows it will with time. 

He thinks it would be weirder if they  _ didn't _ sleep in the same bed, if they  _ didn't _ stay in the same apartment, because that's all he knows, and that's all he and Negan ever had the chance to be.

So they sleep in the same bed, and when they wake up in each other's arms after going to sleep back to back, they don't bring it up, don't question it. Instead they decide there's no point in fighting it, and only days after Negan's return, they sleep face to face, cheek to chest. 

No point in fighting it.

It feels so right, Rick thinks, and he loses himself in it. But it doesn't have to be that serious, he tells himself, it doesn't have to control his life. He can enjoy Negan and enjoy other things. 

It's not like they're back together… even if they are technically back together. They're not boyfriend and boyfriend, at least not yet, and Rick's not so sure he'd like to rush into being in a relationship with Negan again.

There is still five years between them that need to unfold, and a coming of age tale in the form of a film that needs to be co-created by Rick. 

And there's a reason they broke up. They don't talk about it, but it's there- even if it's been dulled down and forgotten with all the desperation and the yearning, and the cuddling and the  _ Thank God you're not dead.  _

Rick still hasn't told Glenn and Maggie, half because Negan told him not to for Beth's sake, half because he knows if he did they'd make him snap out of it.

He's fine, he knows he is. He can put his foot down… He  _ can.  _

But one day, he’s getting dressed for work (Negan pretends to be asleep so he won't get caught ogling, and Rick’s pretending like he doesn't know Negan's pretending) and he fucks up. 

“Negan?” Rick calls, sitting on his side of the bed as he pulls on his boots.

Negan feigns the breaking of his unconsciousness, “Yeah, baby?”

That's another thing, Rick's conscience notes, he still lets Negan call him all these nice words. Baby, babe, honey, hon- he knows he shouldn't let him, but they make Rick feel good, make his muscles relax. 

That could be why he uses those word: to get on Rick's good side, to weaken him, to melt him down to nothing. 

But being called those names under the sweetness of a familiar, loving tongue- It's something he’d missed so much, and he'd be lying if he said it wasn't. No point in lying. 

“I'm heading out.”

“Alright,” Negan says softly.

Rick's not sure what comes over him, but the next thing he knows, he's leaning in, casually planting a peck on Negan's lips like it's 2017 and Rick's in a rush to head out to his 8am class. 

It's not until he pulls away that he realizes the weight of his actions, and he all but freezes just inches away from Negan's face. 

He sees those whiskey warm eyes blank with shock, sees his slightly scarred face tinged the faintest, almost cherubic, pink. 

The memories must've flooded back to Negan as well, because then he's looking up into blue eyes, asking, “You're not in school anymore?”

Rick remembers the days where that question was big news, ridden with shock and some kind of fright in the mouths of the many beholders. Hearing it now, it feels like old news, and it makes his brow crinkle. He forgets there's things they don't know about each other, things life has thrown at them that they didn't share.

“No… dropped out years ago.”  _ Five years ago, when we broke up _ , Rick wants to say, but it seems too heavy. Though it's the kind of heaviness they need, the kind of heaviness that will only become harder to bear as their new time together goes on. 

“What do you do now?” 

“I work,” Rick states, “With Glenn… without him.”

“Do you like working with him?” Rick notes the hope clinging to his sleepy voice.

“I do. I love it.”

Negan gives a languid smile, and his puffy, sleep swollen eyes crinkle easily. “Good,” he says, and his voice is breathy and unrehearsed.

It makes Rick smile, and he has to kiss him again.

Rick doesn't want to put his foot down this time.

Rick doesn’t know if he can even put his foot down next time. He knows there will be a next time.

-

Andrea can be a little annoying sometimes, but she means well… Or you know what, maybe she doesn't. Yeah, she probably doesn't. 

She listens to a lot of weird indie music that not even the everlasting hipsters of Austin have heard of- some of it Rick likes, most of it he doesn't-  and she complains when you put on anything but that kind of music.

She doesn't like The Strokes and trashes Julian Casablancas name however she can and it's not like they're Rick's favorite band, but he's been on a Strokes kick for a while and it'd be nice to be able to listen to them without her pointing out every single non existent flaw in their mixing and their music.

Also whenever she talks she says things so fucking unusual all Rick can muster up in response is usually ‘what the fuck?’. 

And she talks a whole lot now, ever since Rick unleashed the beast that one day. 

Still they're friends, or something like that. 

He doesn't know if that'll remain the same when Rick finally has enough and tells her to put a fucking cap on it, but it's bound to be Christmas soon, and Rick can't find it in his heart to do so just yet. 

He's marinated in the holy Christmas ghost, and it's trapped his balls and shrunk his pride- generally speaking, now that he thinks about. Just a side effect of the season of giving, Rick supposes. 

So he lets her listen to all the indie music she wants, and he puts on all of the Julian Casablancas his heart desires, just for the sake of it. 

She’ll take the record player every other day, and he or whoever else might be on shift will take the stereo. 

He puts on a Christmas song by none other than the frontman of The Strokes.  _ Silent Night _ and  _ Santa Claus is Comin to Town  _ are all good songs for the holiday season, but he figures they’re overplayed. Though Andrea won't, he's sure the customers and he himself will enjoy this song selection much better. 

_ I don’t care what the neighbors say _

_ Christmas time is near _

_ I don’t care what anyone says _

_ Christmas is full of cheer _

_ All I know is that Santa’s sleigh is making its way to the USA _

_ I wish it was Christmas today _

“That song is fucking stupid,” Andrea comments, because of course.

He feels annoyance tickle under his skin, but also something like amusement. Arguing with her is fun, he likes it. It’s the basis of their friendship.

The song Rick is playing fills the room, and yeah it’s a little juvenile and unpolished, but its fitting and also very relevant, and he tells her as much. 

“No it’s not,” Rick argues, “It’s cool.”

“It’s anything  but cool,” she chides. “You want to hear a good Christmas song?” Rick doesn’t answer that, but she still walks over to the record display that holds all the holiday albums. “This is an  _ impeccable _ Christmas song.”

She puts on the record, and Rick snatches up the sleeve, gathering information. 

_ LCD Soundsystem _ these people call themselves, and the song is called  _ Christmas Will Break Your Heart. _

Very morose, is Rick’s first impression, and it holds firm as he listens on. 

_ Christmas will break your heart _

_ If your world is feeling small _

_ There’s no one on the phone _

_ That you feel close enough to call _

_ Christmas will crush your soul _

_ Like that laid back rock n roll _

_ But your body’s getting old _

_ Much too tired to be so bold _

As dark as it is, Rick does kind of like it, for some sad reason. But he’s not in the mood to grant Andrea as much.

“That is  _ not _ a good Christmas song,” Rick scoffs, “That’s… I don’t know, the anthem to seasonal depression.”

“And what’s wrong with that?”

“What the fuck? What do you mean what's wrong with that? I don't want Christmas to break my heart! No one does. Christmas is supposed to be.. jolly and warm and- you get what I mean!”

She laughs a laugh that is very belittling, “You are such a fucking cliche.”

Rick wheezes in disbelief, because _she_ is such a cliche, “No, trust me,  _ you _ are.” He turns up the stereo, his choice of an upbeat Christmas-y tune overpowering Andrea’s.

Andrea turns up her song in response, “Trust  _ me.  _ It's you.”

Rick turns up his, “No, it's you.”

She turns up hers, “ _ No,  _ it's you!”

He turns up his, “ _ No, it's you!”  _ He has to yell now because of the volume of their clashing tunes. 

She turns up hers until its max volume, and Rick can't hear what she's saying but he's sure it's something exactly like what he said.

He reciprocates by turning his music all the way up as well, and it's deafening, even louder than hers. 

Rick watches her face twist and scrunch with anger, her lips pursing haughtily as they move and bend to form words that Rick can't even be bothered to hear. 

She looks so ridiculous that Rick can't help but laugh, doubling over onto the counter until his forehead lays flat on the old wood.

When he looks up a moment later to get another glimpse, something to keep his laughter high and mighty, he only sees Andrea gawking at the stores entrance like a deer in headlights.

Confused, he turns to see what she's looking at, only to see the willowy form of Negan standing idle at the entrance looking up into the room with distaste at the music playing so loudly.

Rick thinks he should be shocked but he's not.

He spares Rick a look and says something inaudible. Rick can't read lips or anything like that, but somehow he can still tell what Negan wants by the look on his face and the sway of his body.

Rick turns the music off, and gestures at Andrea to do the same with hers.

“So this is what Simon let the store fuck off to after I hit the road, huh?” Negan saunters over to the front counter, leaning forward into Rick's space with his head propped on his palms. “Hired some smokin’ hot blue eyed babe to stash behind the counter and reel in some big bucks. Smart man.”

Rick studies his face carefully, from the curve of his smirk to the strands of hair falling onto his forehead. 

“You talking about him or me?” Andrea quips, calling for the man's attention.

Negan's eyes leave Rick's to behold the girl. Rick looks over at her too.

Negan shoots her an easy wink, “Hell… the both of ya, sweetheart. Whatever your little heart desires.”

Andrea positively melts at that, her long, mascara black eyelashes fluttering almost lasciviously. 

Rick rolls his eyes, turning to look at Negan, who's already looking back at him as if he'd never stopped, which startles the boy.

He tries not to let his surprise come across on his face as he asks, voice seeping slowly seeping irritation, “Can I help you?”

Negan senses it, feels it, hears it, and still he smirks, knowing exactly how to get under Rick's skin before he even speaks a word.

“Me? I'm peachy fuckin’ keen,” he says, eyes lazily lidded. Negan looks at Rick like Rick's the answer to all his problems, and Rick hates it because it's not true, but also loves it because he loves  _ him _ . Loves Negan. “You two, on the other hand, it sounds like you could use  _ my _ help.”

“With?” Andrea asks, beating Rick to it.

Negan gives them a challenging look, and responds by disappearing into the aisles, returning a moment later with an assortment of vinyl.

“Christmas music,” Negan states finally as he lays his variety out onto the counter. “What you guys were playing was… alright I fuckin’ guess, but this comes down to a good old fashioned business tactic at the end of the day.” He holds up Elvis’ Christmas album, “You gotta fuckin’ slap em across the goddamn face with a little fuckin’ _Blue Christmas_! You blast this shit and all the other fucking classics, _Santa_ _Baby_ by Eartha Kitt, _Happy Christmas (War is Over)_ by John Lennon; you bust the fuckin’ door down so they hear it and they realize holy fucking shit, I need that shit in my goddamn, sorry ass collection! Then they come hauling ass into the shop, and you got yourself a fucking customer.” He finishes his strategic lecture with a satisfied smile and Rick and Andrea blink at him.

“That's a shit tactic if I’ve ever heard one,” Andrea remarks.

“Yeah,” Rick agrees, “Sounds kinda outdated.”

Negan's jaw drops, “You're fucking kidding me, right? You know there's a damn reason I worked here for nearly eight fucking years!” He jumps over the counter without warning, “Rick, open the door, baby, please,” he says as he takes the Elvis record out of its sleeve.

Rick, despite his flush, glares daggers into Negan's back and there's no doubt hefeels them, because he turns around after he drops the needle onto the record.

“I said please!” He sighs indignantly, but Rick knows that Negan knows that's not why he's looking at him that way.

Still Rick hops over the counter and opens up the door, using an old wooden block to keep it ajar. 

-

An hour later and the shop is full of customers. Rick however, doesn't believe it's solely the effect of Negan's game plan, but of Negan himself.

Rick just doesn't have the heart to tell him.

The first few customers were definitely a product of Negan's strategy though, but after Rick saw the star struck look on their faces when they spotted the guitarist behind the counter, he knew the next flurry that came in not minutes after the first was the simple product of word of mouth. 

Because of the sudden wake of customers, Rick had to work until closing, unable to deny Simon’s request- unlike Andrea. He needs the money anyways. 

Negan, of course, decided to stick around. Simon didn't have a problem with this, not when Negan was once his gold star employee and now raking him in money by just existing. 

Simon had left Negan with the keys when he'd left just a little over a half hour ago (Negan, not Rick… Negan didn't even work here anymore, so that was kind of annoying), leaving the two of them to lock up the store. 

The ceiling lights are dim and slightly yellow as they filter through their plastic screen, shining down anyway but fluorescent; the Christmas music has come to a halt, replaced by the gentle croon of none other than Bobby Womack.

Rick's counting the money in the register, and Negan's sitting in the chair beside him with his feet kicked up on the counter, head leaning back as he listens to the music.

_ Close to you _ _   
_

_ Why do birds suddenly appear, every time you are near? _ _   
_

_ Just like me, they long to be close to you _ _   
_

_ Why do stars fall down from the sky, every time you walk by? _ _   
_

_ Just like me, they long to be close to you _

_ Oh the day that you were born the angels got together _ _   
_

_ And decided to create a dream come true _ _   
_

_ So, they sprinkled moon dust in your hair of gold _ _   
_

_ And star-light in your eyes of blue _ _   
_

_ That is why all the boys in town follow you around _ _   
_

_ Just like me, they long to be close to you _

Rick pushes the cash register back in and it makes a sound that pulls Negan out of his trance, but not from his peace.

“So,” he begins slowly, his voice a deep, sleepy lure, “You work here.” It could be a question, but it doesn't sound much like one.

“I do,” Rick confirms.

Negan gives Rick a teasing smirk, so familiar and warm, “You put me as a reference on your application? You can tell me.”

Rick battles the smile that fights to take such natural hold over his face. In the end, his lips just look like they've been molded into a crooked smile. “Shut up,” he mumbles.

Negan laughs.

“You know,” he says, voice taking a different route, traveling down a road that has been nearly untouched in Rick's favor. It runs smooth and silky, dark like rich, black gold, “On days when business was slow, I'd sit right here, and I'd daydream about fucking you right on this fucking counter.”

Rick has never turned so red so fast, it's almost dizzying.

“Just the thought, the possibility of it happening, knowing that it could, would get me so fucking hard.”

_ Fuck, _ is all that runs through Rick's mind,  _ Fuck me, fuck you, fuck him- just fuck.  _

“I- you can't just say shit like that, Negan,” Rick nearly chokes on the words as he finds his tongue.

“Why? Because it gets you just as fucking hard as it gets me?”

_ Yes _ , Rick's dick says.

“Because it's been five damn years, that's why,” Rick himself says, once his dick loses the reins on his brain. 

That does the trick however, because Negan goes silent. 

“I know,” Negan says quietly, gazing into Rick's eyes, “but I… I just want things to go back to the way they were. I wanna be the way we were.”

Rick gives a sad little flash of a smile, softly saying, “Things can never be the same, baby.” Negan deflates before Rick can even finish, averting his gaze. “But they can be better. Different, but better.”

He looks up at Rick again, hopeful but quiet, before he breaks into a careful smile, nearly reaching that natural shade of self-righteous content.

It almost feels a little wrong, but Rick can’t help smiling back.

“C’mere,” Negan nearly purrs, extending a hand towards the boy who is so close that it feels far.

Rick takes his hand, and Negan pulls him into his lap, helping him settle. 

He plants a kiss on his shoulder just before he hooks his chin over it, their stubbly cheeks scraping together with the closeness as he wraps his arms around Rick’s middle. 

All of the stiffness in their bodies leaves, vanishing into the thin air around them as they take in each other’s warmth, like they’re two mingling souls. 

It’s quiet, nothing but music, nothing but Negan and Rick and Bobby Womack- in spirit as he sings:

_ You know, I'm a true believer _ _   
_

_ If you get anything out of life _ _   
_

_ You got to put up with the toil and strife _ _   
_

_ Ooh You're pushin' my love _ _   
_

_ A little bit too far _ _   
_

_ I don't think you know… _

_ That’s the way I feel about you. _

“I missed you so much, Rick,” Negan speaks, “So fucking much. More than anything.”

“I know,” Rick says, “You tell me everyday… I missed you, too.”

“I know.”

_ Of course you do,  _ Rick thinks. 

A pause fills the air before Rick speaks again, asking, “Do you still play your guitar..? Do you still make music?”

Negan sighs, “Not lately.”

“Why not?” Rick almost sounds offended.

“Well, I don’t have any fucking guitars, for starters.”

“Why not?” Rick repeats, like a child.

“Sold them,” Negan answers, and before Rick can respond with a  _ Why?  _ or  _ For what?,  _ Negan answers that too, albeit resentfully, “For drugs.”

Rick falls silent.

“I made a bunch of fucking money off our second album and our shows and I bought so many guitars, tried to fill a void or some shit, fulfill a childhood dream- I don’t fucking know… Then I became a junkie, left the band, signed some contracts, and they cut funds. Had to find some way to get dope, so I sold all my guitars,” Negan swallows, “Except one. One of them I gave away.”

Rick nods beside him and Negan feels it. There’s no judgement, but a sort of melancholy, the kind that would always strike Rick when he thought about Negan being dead. 

“That girl, on the cover,” Rick begins, stiffening slightly, “Alpha, is she your- was she your-”

“No,” Negan answers, “nothing like that. She was just my friend, maybe not even that. It feels fucking stupid calling her that. Our PR thought it would look good if we made it seem like we were a thing, so we did magazine covers, photoshoots. We both just wanted the money, and our label wanted us to be the next John and Yoko or some shit.”

Rick still does not relax, and Negan can almost feel the jitteriness running through him, can almost feel the nerves that spell him. 

It’s because Rick knows the answer to the question he’s about to ask Negan.

“Did you… sleep with anyone else?”

A long sigh. “Rick…” Negan sounds tired all of a sudden, “Honey, it was- it was five years, baby-”

“Answer me.”

“Yes, alright, I fucking did, but I mean fucking  _ come on _ \- five fucking years?! I’m sure you had some fun, too. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

Rick shakes his head. “I know there isn’t,” he says, flushing, feeling ridiculous and slightly angered, “But I couldn’t.”

It’s not that he’s jealous because Negan fucked someone else. Of course, it’s not exactly a pleasant thought, but it’s not like Negan cheated or anything. He doesn’t feel betrayed by Negan, just by himself and his body. 

Cigarettes are not good enough spite. He feels weak, like not being able to have sex with someone else makes him feeble and weepy and…  _ rusty _ .

“How many?” Rick asks, pouring salt into his own wound. 

“Does it matter?” When Rick doesn’t respond, he sighs, “A lot, okay? A fucking lot. I’m not proud of it, but I'm not ashamed. I was lonely, deeply fucking lonely, and super fucking bored. I didn't know what else I could do.”

Rick lets those words deep into his brain. 

He was  _ bored _ . He  _ didn't know what else he could do.  _

So while Rick was living at his parents house in a small, pathetic fucking Texas town, lying in his childhood bed all day and night, wishing his own tears would rot him to the bone, wishing he could get some damn sleep and forget about his troublesome heartache, Negan was fucking other people.

Of course… Of course Rick would be the one wallowing in his distress, taking everything to heart way too much, and of course Negan could just… do those kinds of things, be with people.

A bitterness washes over him, mingling with confusion. 

Why couldn't he just sleep with other people? Why couldn't he even  _ kiss _ other people? Why does Negan get to have so much control over him- mind, body, and soul? 

Rick is completely stiff in Negan's arms now, having lost the comfort that had wholly encompassed him.

“We should get out of here,” Rick says quietly, moving to stand.

Before he can, Negan holds him in place.

“Rick,” his voice is gentle, full of regret, “Tell me what you're thinking.”

That's funny, Rick thinks. Oh, how the tables have turned. 

“Nothing,” Rick answers, and it's a lie, “... I don't know,” that's not a lie. 

This time when Rick goes to stand, Negan lets him.

Negan locks up the place with Rick terse by his side- like he doesn't know if he wants to be close to him or not.

He makes sure the open sign is flipped to closed, and then they're out the door, leaving in separate cars to the same place.

-

During the drive home, Rick wonders what the inside of Negan's van looks like now, and if the seats still feel the same.

If his copy of George Orwell's 1984 is still in the glove box, if Negan knows it's in there- 

if

if

if.

-

“Where are you going?” Negan asks, voice a hint desperate as he watches Rick shrug on some fresh clothes.

It's almost as if Negan really thinks Rick is gonna leave him again… First of all, Rick just paid rent, and second of all, Negan has no right to sound even a little hurt. 

“Made some plans with my friends,” Rick answers.

“And I'm not one of ‘em?” Negan puts on a smug mask and shoots him a playful wink, slinking towards the boy and reaching his hands out, “C’mon, Ricky, I know you better than that.”

Rick shrinks out of his reach, jaw tensing in irritation, “You don't know me at all anymore.”

For a second Negan's face falls, like he's weighing the possibility, but then the lightness returns as if he's proved the words implausible. “I know you everywhere, all the fucking time. Knowing you is like riding a fucking bike, baby- you never forget. And loving you is just the goddamn same.”

His ridiculousness is laughable, but right now all it does is soften Rick.

“Glenn and Maggie are gonna be there,” he says in further explanation.

“Figured,” is all Negan says, equipped with an easy smile.

_ Why is he always so chipper? Why doesn't he see how serious this is, how serious us being together is? _

Those are questions that run through his head as he heads out the door, a chaste kiss on the cheek from Negan bidding him goodbye. 

-

Rick's not quite in the socializing mood, he really only came to Glenn and Maggie's pre-Christmas get together because he promised he would.

On the bright side, at least he has some space from Negan, some time to sober up from the effects of his heady presence. 

And there's alcohol. That's good, too- and Tara and Noah to consume that alcohol with. 

He's on his third glass of some horribly mixed concoction Noah had made for him, sitting between him and Tara on a too squishy couch and nearly dozing off on the girl's shoulder when Glenn approaches them, a stranger under his arm.

“Rick!” He says, over holiday music and ambient conversation, “This is Aaron! He's gonna be our sound guy. Aaron, this is Rick, he wrote the whole damn movie, this guy.”

“I did,” Rick says, plain and drunk, looking up at this Aaron and trying to steady his vision to make out if he's cute or not.

From what he can tell, Aaron is pretty cute- all clean cut and amiable, sharing smiles and waves.

He was saying something, but Rick didn't get it, was too busy looking at him too obviously.

“What was that?” Rick asks slowly, speech slightly slurred. 

“I said I think I've seen your face before,” Aaron supplies, polite smile unwavering. His eyes are glossy and blue.

Tara and Noah excuse themselves, and so does Glenn. Rick's too drunk to notice what they're trying to do. 

Aaron sits beside him on the couch.

“Oh well, uh, have you seen that mural on sixth street..? Cause that's me… my face,” Rick tries.

“So that's where I've seen your face,” Aaron says, giving a cheesy wink as he tacks on, “Not just in my dreams.”

If Rick weren't drunk he'd probably cringe at that terrible fucking pick up line- and if Aaron weren't drunk he probably wouldn't have said that- but he is, and so is Rick, so he laughs.

He laughs really damn hard. 

And after a few minutes, Rick's got a date. 

“We should have lunch together sometime. Get to know each other,” Aaron says, “We’re gonna be seeing each other a lot either way.”

“Okay,” Rick says before he dissolves into a fit of inebriated giggles.

Aaron writes his number down on Rick's hand, and Rick returns the favor. 

They're both too drunk to think about the fact that it's the 21st century and cell phones exist. 

Rick has a few more drinks, and then he walks home.

-

Negan shivers awake to noisy kisses trailing from the back of his ear and down his t-shirt clothed back.

“Rick?” He calls, voice gravely and quiet in it’s depth. He takes in a sharp breath when Rick nibbles at his pulse point, a surge of heat running along the length of his body, “Mmmm, God  _ damn _ , baby. Missed that fuckin’ angel mouth.”

“What else do ya miss about me, Negan?” Rick whispers, moving his mouth back to the man’s ear.

Negan knows it the second he speaks, knows it even before he smells Rick’s breath: He’s drunk. Even after all this time he can tell. He’ll never be able to forget that certain type of slowness in his speech, that languid thickening of his sweet southern drawl, or the manner of his alcohol induced affections. 

Rick continues kissing down his back, until he’s fixed at the hem of Negan’s flannel pajama pants, rucking his shirt up and giving attention to the base of his spine with his alcohol soaked tongue.

Negan loses his speech, reeling in the sensation, the trail of the boys wet kisses leaving his once warm skin to chill in the cool air.

Then, much to the man's surprise, Rick whirls him around in one quick movement, so that Negan's groin is in his face.

Negan didn't think he had gotten that light. Or maybe he just never knew Rick was that strong.

“Tell me,” Rick persists, digging his fingers underneath the waistband of the man's pajamas and underwear.

Negan feels his cock twitch to life.

Frankly, he's been trying to get Rick in this exact position since their reunion; however, when he'd imagined it, Rick wasn't drunk.

“Rick,” he says stiffly, “you're drunk, babe. Doesn't matter if I told you, you'd just forget.” He puts his hands over Rick's, willing the boy to ease the eager grip on his clothes. “Let's go to sleep.”

“How do you know I'm that drunk?” Rick asks, almost like a taunt, “I could just be fakin’ it, usin’ it as an excuse to give in to ya.”

Yeah right , Negan thinks,  with the way he's talking, there's no way he's not  _ that _ drunk _. _

“You tired, Rick?” He asks instead, gently, watching as the boy above him yawns at his question, nodding his head. “Let's go to sleep then, alright?”

Rick nods again, his resolve fizzling away fast.

Negan watches as Rick removes his hands from where they'd migrated to Negan's hips so that he can remove his jeans. 

He sees a black smudge left behind on his skin and  studies it curiously before he goes to the source, grabbing Rick's hand and turning it over to the palm side.

There he sees a number, scribbled in magic marker, smudged from sweat and nearly illegible. He feels his heart pinch with disappointment.

“What's this?” He asks quietly, watching as Rick still tries to shrug out of his jeans using only one hand.

“He's the sound guy,” is all Rick says, so casual as he sits on Negan's legs.

“Oh,” Negan says, pausing for a beat before he asks, “Do you like him?”

“I don't know,” Rick shrugs honestly, “He's cute, but… we’ll see.”

Negan lets go of his hand, and Rick kicks off his jeans, falling beside Negan on the bed and laying his head on the older man's shoulder.

It's a long time before Negan speaks up again.

“Rick?” He says.

He's surprised when Rick gives a sleepy “Hmm?” He figured the boy would've been asleep already. 

“I thought we..”  _ I thought we were together _ he wants to say, but it sounds pathetic even in his head.

He figures he should just say it; Rick won't remember in the morning anyways. 

But whether Negan tells Rick while he's drunk or sober, he knows now that they're not what he thought they were.

It doesn't matter after a while though, because Rick starts to snore, and that conversation is over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading!  
>  I hope you enjoyed and as always, feedback and constructive criticism are more than welcome :) <33


	13. Thinking So Hard on His Soft Eyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs mentioned in this chapter include:  
> 'Feels Like We Only Go Backwards' by Tame Impala  
> 'Like a Stone' by Audioslave  
> 'Last Goodbye' by Jeff Buckley  
> 'Ace of Spades' by Motorhead  
> 'Razorblade' by The Strokes
> 
> theres so many songs.... i have a problem

Negan wakes up to an anguished groan croaked too close to his ear.

Rick buries his head into the crook of the man's neck, and Negan moves in closer, cradling the back of the younger boy's head, his drowsy body acting on antique instinct.

“You okay?” Negan's voice is sparse gravel, going in and out in with its lack of use.

“Moved my head too fast,” Rick mutters in remorse, letting out another quick groan, “What time is it?”

It's then Negan realizes the bountiful amount of winter sunlight seeping in through the window, touching the skin of their bodies that peeks out of their shared blanket.

He reaches over Rick to grab the boy's phone, pressing the home button to reveal the time.

Negan misses it the first time though, because he stares at the lock screen for so long it fades to black.

It's just a picture of Rick and his two friends Tara and Noah on the trampoline back at Rick's house. It's a very candid picture, definitely not taken with a timer or anything like that.

They're just lying on their backs, side by side, staring at the sky.

Negan wonders who could've taken the picture: Rick's mom? That's very plausible. Rosita, maybe?  She seems too cool to take pictures like that, but then again Negan's only met her once.

Then Negan's mind starts to shift dramatically, thinking maybe that picture was taken by someone else, someone special to Rick- like a boyfriend or girlfriend he had at the time, and that's why Rick has it as his lock screen, because it reminds him of _them._

Negan has to set the phone down, has to close his eyes and blink hard because he knows he sounds like a fucking crazy psycho stalker ex boyfriend.

So what if Rick had lovers in the past? So what if he _didn't_ _?_ None of it makes a difference. Negan's still here now, they're still together.

Except they're not, Negan remembers, and Rick has some dudes number on his hand.

That's okay, too, Negan tries to convince himself, even though his gut sinks at the thought.

So what if he might like this guy? Rick loves Negan, he said so himself.

That's all Negan has to hold onto.

“Baby,” Rick calls, his distressed voice tearing Negan away from his thoughts, “The time?”

“Shit, yeah, it's um-” he tries to keep his eyes on the numbers and not the picture this time around, “It's a little past eleven.”

Rick hums, pleased, rolling further into Negan.

“I-um… I just remembered I gotta be somewhere,” Negan says, pulling away quickly and getting to his feet before Rick can say anything to make him change his mind. All he’d have to do is flap half a vocal cord and Negan would be powerless.

“Where?” Rick asks, looking up at the man who's slipping on a pair of jeans.

Negan sees the way Rick grimaces as a result of the sun and his too fast movements so he shuts the curtains, making the room dark.

It makes it easier for him to leave now that he doesn't have to see Rick's face.

“I don't know, somewhere..” Negan says, “Gotta fuckin’ get out of here. Get some vitamin fuckin’ D or some shit.”

He grabs a water bottle from Rick's fridge, aspirin from the medicine cabinet in the restroom, and sets them down on the night stand beside the bed.

“Drink that and more, and take those for your headache,” he grabs his keys that he'd thrown onto the couch the previous night, and quickly heads out the door.

-

Being with Rick is so much love and so much pain. It's intense as fuck on both ends and Negan hates it sometimes, but loves it all of the time.

Because in the end, it's all feeling, and as cheesy as it fucking sounds, it reminds him he's alive, that he's lucky to feel pain and sadness and all those shitty feelings people like to forget about.

He was almost dead so many times and that's why he lets himself feel everything through and through.

That's why he lets himself be dramatic and moody and in-love and heartbroken, but to an extent. He doesn't want to hurt Rick because he’s wallowed too deep in his own feelings.

He's still trying to get the hang of that, though.

In his van, he's got one hand on the wheel, one hand on the knob to the radio.

He changes it until he finds that familiar indie station.

They're playing a song he knows. He thinks he met the dude who sings it one time in LA, but was too high to remember the extent of the memory. Maybe it was a dream.

If it wasn't, Negan hopes he told the dude that his songs are fucking good as fuck.

 _It feels like I only go backwards baby_  
_Every part of me says "go ahead"._   
_I got my hopes up again, oh no... not again._   
_Feels like we only go backwards darling._   
  
_I know that you think, you sound_ _  
Silly when you call my name  
_ _But I hear it inside my head all day.  
_ _When I realize I'm just holding onto  
_ _The hope that maybe  
_ _Your feelings don't show..._

-

Rick takes the aspirin, drinks the water, and goes back to sleep for another couple of hours or so. He's not exactly sure of the time.

He's also not exactly sure why Negan was acting so weird.

When he wakes up the second time around, his phone is ringing.

His brow wrinkles when he sees a number he doesn't recognize glaring on the screen.

He's not sure why he feels like he has to answer, but he does anyways.

“Hello??” He greets, voice cracking from disuse.

“Hey, Rick? This is Aaron.”

His confusion only grows, “Who?”

There's a breathy laugh, “You really know how to make a guy feel special, huh?”

When Rick doesn't respond, unsure of the awkwardly flirtatious tone this Aaron is using with him, the receiving end buzzes on.

“We, um- Glenn introduced us last night at the party,” he explains, “I'm the sound guy.”

“Oh yeah, yeah… Aaron,” Rick says, as if he actually remembers, “Um, what did you need?”

“I just uhh- we… how's Friday?”

“Friday??”

“Yeah, Friday,” he laughs.

Rick almost feels bad he doesn't know what this guy is talking about; he sounds so nervous.

“How's Friday for what?”

“Our date.. We talked about it last night.”

Rick nearly chokes on the air around him.

Shit… what did he get himself into? A fucking date??

Was that why Negan was acting funny? Did he somehow know? How did he find out? What did Rick _do_ last night?

“Um, I… uh-”

“Look, I know we were drunk,” Aaron begins, sighing apologetically, “but you don't have to go through with this if you don't wanna.”

 _Aaron,_ Rick runs the name through his head, trying his best to attach a face to it. But in the end, he can't.

He doesn't know if he wants to go on this date. He knows he wouldn't if Negan wasn't here- but he is.

It's just a fucking date, but it feels so monumental, so phony, so nerve wracking.

He recalls his first date with Negan: the show at Antone's, the music, the cop. That was huge, but it didn't feel like it. It felt natural, like a breeze.

This doesn't feel right, but Rick decides he's going to do it anyways.

The whole scenario reminds him of how he and Lori started dating, but instead of Glenn being the matchmaker, it was his Mom that time.

That didn't end very well, but Rick's gotta try.

It's just a date. Nothing else. Doesn't have to be anything else- not unless he wants it to (He knows he won't want it to).

“Yeah,” Rick says, pasting on a smile, “Friday’s good.”

There's a smile in Aaron's voice as well as he says, “Cool. I'll see you soon.”

Rick hangs up, and throws himself back onto the bed.

He stares up at the ceiling, feeling his nerves bundled in his stomach, filling him with regret.

But he has to do this, has to prove to himself that he can.

-

Negan ends up at Beth's house, because that's just how shit is, and he needs a damn friend.

She answers the door, and honestly doesn't even look surprised to see him. In fact, it's almost like she expected him.

She just turns back into her house and Negan follows her all the way back into her room, no words spoken.

It's the first time Negan's ever been in her childhood bedroom, and it's pink as fuck with ruffles and fluffy things everywhere.

It seems to fit Beth but at the same time it doesn't, which is funny.

She plops down onto her princess pink bed and Negan hears the shifting of all of her makeup laid upon her bed, clinking and clattering as Beth moves them around.

“What do you want?” She asks tersely, sounding bored as she ties her hair back.

“Geez, how about a warm fucking welcome, goddamn…”

“Sorry,” she says, though she doesn’t sound it. She grabs a mirror off of her nightstand, “You caught me at a bad time… I just woke the fuck up.”

“Beth, it's gonna be one in the afternoon.”

Negan watches as she dots a flesh toned liquid onto her face.

He’s seen her do this many times- from the days where she crashed with him and Rick at their old apartment, to the days where they were stuck on a rocky tour bus, and to the days where he had to crash with her in her beach house in California.

“You used to shoot coke in the dark fucking alleys of Stockholm and you’re judging me for sleeping in?”

Negan notices the teasing in her voice and he smirks, “Shit… you got me.”

Beth chuckles, a bit of life entering her body. “No but really, what do you want?”

He sighs, his troubles resurfacing. He steps closer to Beth, moving to sit on her bed.

“Don’t sit on my makeup!” Beth warns quickly, and Negan freezes mid squat because her makeup is fucking all over the damn place.

In the end he settles for lying on her fuzzy pink rug just a few feet from her bed, watching with his hands twined over his stomach as Beth transforms her face. It’s interesting, he thinks, getting pulled into a trance as he follows her movements. It’s like watching an artist paint, but more personal, almost.

Watching her do this, he remembers he has no fucking eyeliner to his name, and maybe that’s why he feels so out of place. Yeah sure, maybe Rick’s scoring other dudes numbers because Negan’s swag is down. Makes perfect sense.

Either way, he makes a mental note to somehow get his hands on some- maybe use the five finger discount and steal Beth’s.

“So…” Beth’s voice recurs, “Spill.”

Oh yeah…

“You know how you told me there might be someone else?”

Beth looks up at him, caution in her eyes, “Yeah?”

“Well you were wrong,” he says, just so she knows, before adding, “...at first.”

“What the hell are you tryin’ to say?”

Negan sighs. He really doesn’t want to say it out loud, because that means it’s fucking out there, and quite frankly, it’s a little fucking embarrassing. You drive an assload of miles to see the man you love and now he’s scoring someone else's number and only showing you true, unfiltered affection when he’s drunk… how fucking pitiful.

“Rick got some dudes number last night at Glenn and Maggie’s fucking Christmas party and now my fucking heart hurts,” he mutters, because he might as well be honest, “And- and I just… I just don’t fucking get it. We’ve been sleeping in the same bed and like kissing and shit, and we both told each other we still love each other. I thought we were… together.”

She takes a deep breath, “Negan… You gotta remember, _you_ fucked him over. He resents you, even if he loves you still.”

“Yeah, but-”

“Did you tell him you fucked other people?”

“Yeah, I did but-”

“Why on earth would you do that?”

“Because he fucking asked! What, do you want me to lie?”

“Oh my God,” she groans, “what’s wrong with you two?”

Negan can’t answer that. Fuck if he knows.

“You know where you went wrong?” She asks a moment later, one undereye left with a thick layer of unblended concealer as she stares at him intently.

“Of course its fucking me who went wrong-”

“Yeah, it is! Because you fuckin’ waltzed into his life after five years and thought shit would go back to normal! That’s where you went wrong, you should’ve fuckin’ expected this. He’s still growing. Don’t you remember what it’s like to be twenty five?”

“Of course I fucking do, but Rick’s different- he’s… smarter and nicer and kinder,” Negan says, “He’s better off than I was at twenty five.”

“He’s a goddamn human just like the rest of us, Negan, stop bein’ so in love and get your head out of your ass. He’s not perfect; you wounded him and then he spent five years trying to heal. Then you come back and now the wounds are fresh and he’s fuckin’ confused.... Have you two even tried to talk about what went wrong??”

When Negan does nothing but sigh, she knows it’s a no.

“Of course you didn’t…” she concludes with a heavy sigh, “You didn’t even talk shit out and you think you’re back together? That’s your damn problem.”

“Well, it’s too late for that now,” Negan mutters, watching as Beth applies blush heavily to her cheeks, the deep flush contrasting her blue eyes.

“No it’s not,” Beth says easily, “Actually, it might be easier for you now-”

Negan scoffs, “Yeah, it’s gonna be real fuckin’ easy for me hearing the man I’m in love with have phone sex with someone who isn’t me. Easy peasy lemon fuckin’ squeezy, thanks Beth, I _really_ feel better now.”

She rolls her eyes, “Like I was sayin’ before you started bitchin’, It might be easier for you now that you know where you stand with him. Obviously, Rick would never get some other guys number if he thought you two were together, so you’re obviously not together. So you get a clean slate: be his friend. Forget that you’re _in_ love with him, and focus on the fact that you just _love him_ and be his friend and don’t expect anythin’ in return. Be selfless for once.”

“Fuck,” Negan breathes, shifting his gaze to the ceiling as he considers her words, “Maybe you’re right... I am kind of fucking selfish, aren’t I?”

“Yeah, but it’s not a bad thing to be selfish sometimes,” she shrugs, “It’s good to think about yourself first in the grand scheme of things, but sometimes thinkin’ about others is just as much good for yourself as it is for the person you’re considerin’. Hell, sometimes thinkin' about you first is better for other people more than it is for yourself, now that I think about it."

She says this shit so nonchalantly, so relaxed and in tune with herself as she makes up her face. Negan wonders how the fuck she has her shit together when she’s barely twenty-three.

“Speakin’ of that, why don’t you start takin’ some time for yourself, you know? Enjoy your alone time instead of wishin’ Rick was there for you to bother.”

“That sounds boring,” Negan whines.

“You’ve done it before when he’d go to school and work at the library. You’d sit in your room and listen to music and play guitar.. Why don’t you do that now?”

“I don’t have a fucking guitar, that’s why.”

“So go fuckin’ buy one, you’re a fuckin’ millionaire,” She points to the mini fridge in the corner of her room, “See that mini fridge? I didn’t fuckin’ have one before, but I bought it, and now I have a place to stash my Ben and Jerry’s so my Dad won’t steal my shit… You have to go out and make shit happen.”

“I’m scared,” Negan admits sheepishly, “of getting another guitar and fucking things up- not just with Rick but with myself. I’m scared I’ll lose myself again.”

“If you’ve truly learned from your mistakes, you won’t,” she says, “and even if you do, you can’t control shit like that, so don’t worry about it until it happens. Just do it because you love it, don’t fucking expect anything from it… because the music doesn’t expect anything from you.”

She’s so confident in what she says that Negan trusts her.

“You wanna go guitar shopping with me?” He asks, looking up at her.

“Hold on, I can’t talk while I’m doing this,” she excuses herself as she applies her liquid eyeliner, “And don’t look at me! You’re givin' me your nervous energy.”

Negan looks towards the ceiling, “Jeez…you’re such a girl.”

“Says the one who came to my house to lie on my rug and tell me about his goddamn boy troubles…”

“...Fuck you.”

A few minutes later and Beth is free from her silent eyeliner induced spell.

“I can’t go guitar shopping with you,” Beth says finally, “Maybe next week. I’m grounded.”

Negan guffaws, “You’re twenty-fucking- three and you’re grounded?”

“His house, his rules,” Beth shrugs, grabbing her mascara, “Oh, and can you leave through the window? My Dad doesn’t know you’re here.”

Negan laughs, "Why’d he fucking ground you?” 

“He saw a video online of me smoking weed last night at the Cavern,” Beth smiles hard, trying not to laugh, “and it was past my curfew. I was supposed to be home at nine.”

Negan wheezes long and hard, rolling onto his stomach as his laughter takes a hold of him. Beth's resolve caves as well.

When he settles down, he realizes he has bigger problems at hand.

“Dude,” he begins, turning his head towards Beth, “I need fucking eyeliner.”

“You don’t need makeup,” Beth begins in a pseudo-masculine voice, and she’s already struggling to stifle her laughter, “You’re- you’re beautiful without it.”

Negan wheezes again, so hard he starts to cough, his past as a chain smoker catching up to him. His core hurts when he regains himself, “Sh-Shut the fuck up, Beth.”

She chuckles some more before she kicks at his leg, “Come here, let me show you somethin’.”

Negan complies, and Beth clears a spot on her bed for him to sit beside her.

She pulls out two eyeliner pencils, two different shades, “You can't keep these, but take notes.”

When she comes at him with one of the pencils in her hands, Negan flinches, “I swear to God, Beth, if you fuckin’ poke me in the eye-”

“Then shut up and stay still!” She says, “And close your eyes.”

He closes his eyes and tries not to move as the familiarly odd sensation recurs to him. It feels weird with someone else doing it to him, oddly relaxing, though.

Shit, maybe he should invest in a fucking personal makeup artist.

“Okay,” Beth says, breaking the tranquil reverie, but only by a little, “Open your eyes.”

Negan does so and she hands him a mirror, gesturing for him to look into it.

“I put black on one eye and this really dark brown on the other,” she explains, looking into the mirror with him, “You can barely tell the difference, but the brown really brings out the green in your eyes, and the black brings out the brown… just a tip.”

Negan checks himself out some more, before he concludes, “Beth… I look fucking hot.”

She laughs, patting him on the back, “Sure you do, buddy. The power of makeup.”

He steals a look at the girl beside him, and she's smiling so hard there's lines near her eyes and her cheeks that weren't there when she was just seventeen.

She's been his friend for so long, through thick and thin, even though Negan was a huge asshole half the fucking time.

He's had the privilege of watching her grow and learn and use her talent to her best advantage.

“Hey Beth,” he says, almost shy as he undresses himself of his pride. She turns her head to him, and he continues, “I'm sorry… for that one time backstage, after the show in Stockholm, when I pushed you. That was a fucking dick move and I'm sorry-”

She softens, though her features tighten as she recalls the time, “Negan, it's alright-”

“It's not alright, Beth… Sometimes I feel like I don't deserve to have you as a friend- or any of you guys," he speaks of his bandmates, "I fucked it up for all of us. We could've been bigger than the fucking Beatles, I know we could've, but I fucked that up. We had something so good, the four of us.”

“It’ll always be there, Negan, it’ll never leave," Beth assures, "It had to happen the way it did, and I'm not mad about it. We made some good fucking music, and we’ll make some more… but later, when you get your guitar.”

Negan huffs a laugh, “Yeah,” he smiles, voice quiet and humbled, “you can fucking count on that.”

-

Driving back to Rick’s apartment, Negan’s trying to find a good station yet again, driving one handed.

Doing so, he lands upon some strictly 2000s alternative radio station, and he hears a song by Audioslave that he hasn’t heard since he was like ten.  

The easy melancholy in Chris Cornell’s voice is enough to capture his attention, but add Tom Morello’s fucking wicked guitar tone, and Negan is completely sucked into the tune.

That being said, it’s the first time he actually listens to the song- the words, in particular.

_On a cobweb afternoon_

_In a room full of emptiness_

_By a freeway I confess_

_I was lost in the pages_

_Of a book full of death_

_Reading how we'll die alone_

_And if we're good, we'll lay to rest_

_Anywhere we want to go..._

_In your house I long to be_

_Room by room patiently_

_I'll wait for you there_

_Like a stone_

_I'll wait for you there_

_Alone.._

_On my deathbed I will pray_

_To the gods and the angels_

_Like a pagan to anyone_

_Who will take me to heaven_

_To a place I recall_

_I was there so long ago_

_The sky was bruised_

_The wine was bled_

_And there you led me on_

When it’s over, he realizes just being Rick’s friend is going to be harder than it seems.

-

Rick’s on his phone when Negan gets back.

The latter tries not to let that get to his head so much, tries to push away the pestering thought of _who’s he texting?_ away from his head. Its none of his business, Negan tells himself.

“Hey,” Rick says softly, looking up from the dimmed light of his phone screen. He’s smiling carefully at Negan, like he’s trying to be polite. Negan doesn’t fucking like polite- it’s too boring and impersonal, and he and Rick are definitely past that stage.

“Hey…” It takes a shit ton of consciousness to make sure he doesn’t tack on a _baby_  to the end. In hopes that Rick won’t notice the hellish amount of effort, he tacks on a, “Whatcha doin?”

He seats himself on the red vinyl couch instead of Rick’s bed.

“Um, I just got off the phone with Glenn,” Rick explains, craning his neck to look at the man, “I’ve gotta go run some errands for him.”

“Oh,” Negan responds tersely, because of course right when he comes back Rick has to leave, “that’s- that’s fuckin’ cool.”

“Yeah,” Negan can hear how Rick swallows hard, gulping down a thick lump of nervous energy as he awkwardly says, “Just gotta go to the grocery store, um… Do you- do you want to come? With me? … To the store, I mean-”

Rick flushes at his poor choice of wording, and Negan smirks lightly, a chuckle slipping through his lips.

Negan grins.

This could be a good way for him to practice being just friends with Rick, he decides. There’s nothin’ better than going on a good platonic trip to your local market with your best buddy who you used to fuck to solidify the beginnings of a platonic friendship. No better way to be selfless, either.

“Why sure, darlin’. Of course I’ll fuckin’ go with you.”

He probably shouldn’t have tacked on the _darlin’_ but hey, he’s trying to be Rick’s friend, not erase his entire personality and trash all of his technically harmless mannerisms.

A smile breaks onto Rick's face, “Alright.”

-

This trip to the store could be like a kiss goodbye for Rick and Negan if this date with Aaron goes better than expected, Rick thinks.

He has until Friday, maybe, with the man to get his last few fixes.

“You wanna drive her?” Negan asks, swinging his keys around his finger, his posture ridiculously concave as he stands before his parked van.

“Me?” Rick questions, face incredulous yet amused, maybe a bit flattered, “You're askin' me?”

Negan smirks, “Yeah I'm fuckin’ asking you. I wanna see just how bad of a fuckin’ driver you are.”

Rick scoffs, squinting his eyes at the keys going round and round and round Negan's finger. In the end, he snatches them from the long digit, accepting the challenge, “Get in the van,” he says.

Negan has no trouble complying.

He can't remember the last time he sat passenger in this thing, mostly because he never lets anyone drive her, but hey, he's trying to be friendly. Friends let friends drive their vans.

It might not be helping the selfless thing, however, because he figured Rick would look hot as fuck driving his van, and that he'd enjoy the scene...

Boy, was he fucking right. He drinks up the sight like a man dying of thirst.

“Can you stop staring at me, you're making me nervous,” Rick says, trying his hardest to keep his eyes on the road and not gawk at the man in his peripheral vision.

He reaches out to turn up the radio, figures putting on some music would calm his nerves, but Negan swats his hand away.

“Ten and two, Ricky dicky,” he says as he takes over the knob, “ten and two.”

Rick rolls his eyes, “I’ve seen you drive with your knees while eating Taco Bell _and_ talkin' on the phone, Negan.”

“Yeah, but I'm a fucking pro,” he reasons, seeking out the perfect station, “I would drive my grandpa from bar to bar when I was a wee fuckin’ six year old.”

“That sounds illegal.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah- you're such a damn square,” Negan settles back into his seat when he hears the voice of Jeff Buckley, satisfied for the time being.

Rick goes quiet as he recognizes the tune. He remembers hearing it in Negan's room five years ago on the night when Negan had read his journal.

He thinks the song is way sadder now, considering their situation.

_This is our last goodbye_

_I hate to feel the love between us die_

_But it's over_

_Just hear this and then I'll go_

_You gave me more to live for_

_More than you'll ever know_

Just like that, Rick is reminded.

“Boring!” Negan states, reaching forward once again to change the station.

“Hey!” Rick whines. He thinks Negan changed it because he was reminded too, somehow, “you love Jeff Buckley!”

“Yeah, I do. Not today, though,” he says, and then the sounds of switching static and oddball stations turn into the sounds of bass-heavy metal music. “That's more fuckin’ like it,” Negan says before he turns the music up, just until it's borderline deafening.

A raspy, whiskey-wet, cigarette-scratchy voice sings:

_You know I'm born to lose_

_And gambling's for fools_

_But that's the way I like it_

_Baby, I don't wanna live forever_

The fast pace of it all is enough to instinctively make Rick press down a little heavier on the gas, and Negan laughs with the fluttery adrenaline filling his stomach.

Rick does too, but he doesn't know why. He thinks it's just a nervous reaction.

-

“So what are we even here for?” Negan asks as he and Rick enter the automatic doors of their local grocery store, a gust of artificial wind greeting them harshly.

It's been so long since he's done some sort of mundane task like shopping for necessities. Unless you count hard drugs as necessities, but even then, _that_ kind of shopping and _this_ kind of shopping are two very different things.

“Glenn just told me he needed corn syrup and red food dye… and ten pounds of raw chicken...” Rick says, grabbing a cart, “He didn't say what for- said it was a surprise- but I think I have an idea.”

Negan grabs the cart from Rick, making the boy roll his eyes, “He making a cheap slasher film or something?”

Rick grabs another cart, “That's what I'm thinkin’. I don't understand why, though. We’ve got enough on our hands already.”

Rick starts in a certain direction, and Negan follows close behind because this place is huge, and quite frankly, he'd be lying if he said he wasn't feeling a little socially anxious.

He feels like everyone's fucking staring at him, and justifiably so. He _was_ the guitarist for Austin’s most beloved musical act, second only to Stevie Ray Vaughan’s Double Trouble.

“How's that thing going anyways? You never fucking mentioned that shit to me, only in passing,” Negan brings it up to get his mind on other things- and because he genuinely wants to know, “What's your movie even about? You wrote it, right?”

“We still have a lot of things to work on. We need to figure out where to legally get our scores from, still need to cast people, screen test them. We have a really tight budget,” Rick says, a tone overcoming him that is strictly business, a kind of busy look sealing his skin, “and yeah, I wrote it- with Glenn watching over my shoulder like a hawk… it's a weird fucking movie. I can't explain it.”

Rick chucks six bottles of corn syrup into his cart (yes, Negan counts).

“You have the script back at your place?”

“Yeah..." Rick says wearily, drawing out the word, "Why?”

“Maybe I could read it? When we get back?”

Rick flushes, moving forward and out of the aisle slowly, looking as though he's surveying the contents of the stocked shelves. He doesn't meet Negan's eyes, “Um, I don't know. It's… well, it's not bad but it's… I don't know, I just-”

Negan smiles at his sheepishness, but a part of it disappoints him: he wants Rick to be proud of what he makes.

“What, do you think I'm gonna laugh at you, Rick? Tell you your shit is shitty? Of course I fucking won’t,” he shoots Rick a friendly wink, “at least not to your face.”

Rick shoots him a glare that's heated from flirtatiousness more than it is irritation, then he shoves at his shoulder.

Rick doesn't bring up Negan's offer until a few minutes later, after Negan had already assumed the boy had purposefully shoved the topic away for convenience sake.

“Maybe I’ll let you read it when we get home,” Rick says.

 _When we get home_.

 _We_ …

_Home.._

Those words used to be so normal for them, tossed around easily in the pool of their love.

Negan tries not to think about how he ruined that for them.

“Yeah,” Negan says, pasting on a small smile, “That'd be cool.”

-

Negan has to separate himself from Rick after a while and go off on his own, wandering from aisle to aisle in a kind of trance.

There's so much shit to buy, so much shit he forgot existed after living as a minimalist drug addict for the past couple years.

He forgot Pop Tarts fucking existed, and dear lord, is the rediscovery bittersweet. They have weird ass flavors now, frosted in colors and designs that look like a cheap fucking acid trip.

Of course he throws those babies in his cart either way, alongside some of the more classic flavors he knows he’ll like because hey, why not?

He wanders down the makeup aisle of the store, deciding he might as well kill two birds with one stone and get his eyeliner while he distances himself from Rick.

Except he has no fucking clue where to even begin:

Half of this shit, if not all of it, is packaged to target young girls and suck them into the predicament of commercial beauty and all that shit- there's so much pink and purple and tacky looking blues, labeled with quirky names and improbable claims.

Then the other half of the shit is targeted towards the older women who've already been sucked into the cycle of a consumer's daily beauty routine; guilded plastic and sensual names printed in gaudy golds on sleek black counterparts, labeled anti-wrinkle and youthful glow.

Negan's a fucking twenty nine year old dude and this whole ordeal laid before him is nothing short of confusing.

Sure he's been wearing eyeliner for nearly ten years, but he's never had to actually go out and buy it.

He would just steal it from the purses of the girls he’d sleep with, and burn the tip of it with his lighter as a makeshift form of sterilization.

The last tube of eyeliner he'd actually had wasn't even actual eyeliner, but a real creamy kind of kohl stick he'd stolen from this hot Indian babe who'd always come by the record store.

She had the sexiest fucking brown eyes and once Negan had gotten his hands on that black kohl stick, he finally understood how.

But he lost that precious gem once The Saviors started touring, and now he's not so sure he’ll ever have anything as good as that.

There's a woman nearby, kneeling down to the bottom of a display, holding a baby to her hip and looking down at multiple products precariously.

Negan has a feeling she knows her shit, so he approaches from behind, saying, “Hey darlin’, can you tell me what the fucks actually good here?”

The girl seems to freeze for a second, before she whips her head towards him in surprise.

Negan's eyes widen incredulously before he actually starts laughing.

It's fucking Maggie.

Maggie just shuts her eyes, letting out a deep sigh, “ _Beth.._.” she mutters under her breath, pursing her lips, "Loose lips sink ships.. shoulda known."

Negan notes her boyish chop has grown past her shoulder, falling in loose waves. Other than that, she looks just the same. He can't believe he didn't recognize her.

“Nice to fuckin’ see you, too, sweetheart,” he says, unleashing a smirk, and he means what he says.

The baby on her hip fidgets and coos and Negan's attention falls upon the tiny thing, his smirk moving into something much more gentle.

“This little fella,” he begins, “... you and Glenn..?”

She catches on to what he's trying to say and the distressed look on her face seems to dissipate, even if only for a moment. “Yeah,” she says, shifting her gaze towards her child. “His names Hershel,” she informs, pushing the dark stray hair on her son's head back into uniform.

Negan watches the kids movements, admires his carelessness and his calm. Babies are cool. “He's a fucking cutie, ain't he?” Negan says, before he tacks on a playful, “just like his father,” that earns him a smack upside the head.

But Maggie's laughing- sure she's rolling her eyes, but she's laughing.

“Where's Rick?” She asks, because she just knows.

Negan's not sure if he should play dumb or not, so he plays dumb just for Rick's sake.

“Rick?” Negan questions, feigning cluelessness, “I’m gonna have to ask you to elaborate…”

“Yeah, alright,” Maggie laughs, disbelieving, “and I'm an idiot.”

“Well damn, if the shoe fits..” Negan teases, earning another smack upside the head.

“Why did Rick come here?” She asks suddenly, “What was he buying?” She doesn't give him time to answer, “Lord, I swear if I get home and there's even a _drop_ of red corn syrup in that house….”

Just then, Rick rounds the corner in perfect time. When he sees Maggie, his eyes widen with fright, and he does a u-turn so sharp the wheels on his shopping cart squeal.

“Rick!” Maggie calls, demanding he stay.

“I didn't know he was here!” Rick calls, begrudgingly turning back into the aisle, “Swear to God, I didn't know. Didn't even know he'd be in this aisle,” He looks to Negan, “Right??”

Negan looks into his frantic blue eyes, an amused grin daring to break into laughs, “You're a terrible fucking liar, man.”

At that, Rick deflates, looking to Maggie with his shoulders set with fear.

Maggie however, only cares about what's in his cart.

“Glenn called you here, didn't he?” She asks, rummaging through the contents of Rick's cart.

Rick in his confusion only nods.

“Tell him when I get home I'm gonna kick his ass,” She says fiercely, Rick and Negan and the baby on her hip unfazed.

Rick's confused look remains, however, unable to fathom why she's not upset with Negan being here.

It's almost like she expected it.

 _Of course_ _she was expecting it_ , Rick thinks, _Everyone was._

-

They're unpacking their groceries back at Rick's apartment when Rick begins to question Negan's purchases.

“Why did you buy two Snuggies?” He asks, a smile creeping up on his mouth, “Ew, and a 16 pack box of wild berry pop tarts?”

“I told you the Snuggies were _on sale_ …”

“That doesn't explain the pop tarts.”

“Do pop tarts need a fucking explanation, Rick?”

“That flavor does,” Rick retorts, to which Negan narrows his eyes.

When everything's in its place, Rick walks over to his collection of vinyl, seeking out a specific song from a specific specific record by the Strokes

When he finds it, he puts it on, dropping the needle on the desired track’s line and turning it up.

He turns to find Negan watching him in good humor, a smile on his face.

Rick smiles back, “What? It's been stuck in my head.”

“You like the Strokes?”

“Yeah, I do,” Rick informs, “is that a problem?”

Negan's smile bends further, but his gaze falls away from the boy as he walks over to the kitchen, “Nope.”

Rick watches as he goes, his smile fading by the second, but not in a bad way.

_Oh, the razor blade, that's what I call love._

_I bet you'd pick it up and mess around with it if I put it down_

_It gets extremely complicated_

_Anything to forget everything_

_You've got to take me out at least once a week_

_Whether I’m in your arms or I'm at your feet_

_I know exactly what you're thinking_

_You won't say it now_

_But in your heart it's loud._

_-_

It's later when they're going to bed that Rick figures the Snuggies being on sale wasn't the only reason Negan bought them.

When the man got out of his shower, Rick was anticipating the feeling of a warm body sliding in beside him. He was not, however, anticipating the sound of said warm body dropping itself onto the red vinyl couch. 

He looks to his side only to see Negan cloaked in cheetah print fleece, struggling to get comfortable on the short piece of furniture. The sight would've been laughable had Rick not been so disappointed. 

"You're not gonna sleep with me?" The question leaves Rick's mouth before he can help himself. 

Negan stills, "...Uh.. no." Negan tries not to sound as pained as he very much feels. 

Neither of them can look each other in the eye.

Rick frowns, "But it's- it's... I'm cold."

Negan internally groans, has to grit his teeth and bite down on his lip just to fight the urge to fucking haul ass into that bed. 

He remembers Beth's words of wisdom:  _Forget that you're in love with him, focus on the fact that you just love him, and be his friend._

Cuddling could be platonic, sure- but not between them. Never between them. 

In the end he tosses Rick the zebra print Snuggie he'd bunched up and put under his head as a makeshift pillow. "Giddy up, Cowboy."

Rick catches the thing and looks at it in defeat.  _Why?_  is what Rick wants to know, but he thinks he already does. Still he asks. 

"Is this because of Aaron?"

Negan goes silent for a while before he says, "If Aaron's the sound guy whose number you got, then yeah, it is. " He didn't mean for it to come out as bitter as it does. 

"Oh."

Negan sighs, "But I'm not mad at you, Rick... I get it. It's been more than five fucking years, I get it if you don't want.. if you don't want to be with me right now. Or ever, I don't fucking know."

Rick's heart plummets.

He wants to be with Negan.

So why is he doing this? Why did he promise to go on this date with Aaron?

To prove to himself that he could, that he can?

As time goes on, that reason goes sour.

He just hopes it's worth it. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading! I hope you all enjoyed and as always, feedback and constructive criticism are more than welcome :) <3


	14. The Pious Bird of Good Omen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs mentioned in this chapter include:  
> 'Please Come Home' by Gary Clark Jr.  
> 'Albatross' by Fleetwood Mac (if you wanna fly.. or u got trouble sleeping.. this is ur song)  
> 'Janie's Got a Gun' by Aerosmith  
> 'This Old Dog' by Mac Demarco  
> 'You are my Sunshine' by Johnny Cash

Negan starts awake thanks to the unpleasant but not _completely_ unpleasant sensation of his phone vibrating beneath his ass. 

He’s surprised to see the caller ID that lays on the screen, but figures there’s crazier people who could be calling him, and Gary is definitely not one of them.

The feeling he gets however, is pure nostalgia. 

“Gary, Gary, Gary,” He greets, voice slow and way rougher than he anticipated as a smirk rounds his face. He clears his throat, “How can I help ya, sweetums?”

“Hear you're back in Austin, bro,” Negan can see the smile on his face, demure as he tries to force it away- but he and Gary are too close for that, despite the way their friendship had soured slightly during Negan’s worst times. 

“You heard right.”

There’s a brief, but tangible pause before Gary continues, “How ya’ been, man?”

His voice is tentative, and Negan hears the underlying question:  _ Are you still clean? _

He sighs, “I’ve been good, man,” he steals a glance at his arms, where the cheetah print fleece of the snuggie has rucked and revealed his thick, scarred skin. Then he looks over at Rick, who’s buried underneath a thick coat of blankets- blankets that rise and fall with the time of his deep and even breathing. He sees his mussed curls and vague peeks of his winter pale skin, “I’ve been doing better than I have in a long fucking time.”

“Hey, I’m happy to hear that, bro, really,” Gary says and his claims are evident in his tone, “So, uh… When we gonna jam?”

Negan laughs, “I don’t jam anymore, Gary, I’m gonna be fucking thirty… I just create fucking masterpieces.”

“Shut your ass up, man, I’m forreal.”

“I need a guitar, dude.”

“Let’s go get you one, then.”

“Now?” Negan asks, looking down at his barely awake form.

“Yeah,” Gary says easily, “I ain’t busy.”

“Shit… Well alright, man.”

Satisfied, Gary says, “Meet me at Vintage Guitars in thirty minutes.”   


They hang up, and Negan has little to no trouble getting out of bed when his bed is a shitty, squeaky red couch. 

He makes sure to be extra quiet as he gets dressed, tries his best to make his keys not jingle as loud, because Rick is sleeping and he looks pretty damn comfortable.

He’s practically tip-toeing on his way out the door, but the second his hand twists the knob, Rick calls out. 

“Negan?”   


Shit… Mission failed. 

“Yeah, ba- uh, Rick?”

Rick falters for a second, “Where are you going?”

“Gonna go guitar shopping with Gary.”

-

Rick had heard the entire conversation between Gary and Negan. He knew where Negan was going and why.

But hearing the name Gary again reminds him of all those times he’d been overlooked because of the man and what he’d promised Negan and the Saviors. 

It makes him hurt, even though he feels like he has no right to.

-

Negan found his first guitar in a dumpster by the basketball court near Lucille’s house. It was some cheap piece of wood that was missing half it’s strings, but still Negan was easily enamored, and began learning right away on only three strings that weren’t even tuned correctly.

It sounded horrible and his parents scolded him for making noise all through the day and night, but he pressed on, and the rest is history. 

Now he’s here, in a vintage guitar shop with Gary Clark- who he knows so well that he is no longer starstruck by him- and he’s looking at guitars that amount to some people’s yearly salaries.

And he can pick any one he wants. 

He thinks about his old Gibson acoustic, the one he’d given away, and he yearns for it- he’d invested so much into that beauty, financially and emotionally. Still he figures he was meant to give it away, that it belongs in its new owners hands just as it belonged in his years ago.

As they’re browsing the store, an employee comes up to Gary and Negan, looking utterly pleased to see them.

“Well if it ain't Austin's finest,” the woman says, eyes crinkling delightfully as she smiles all the way to her ears, capturing Gary and then Negan in a firm handshake, “You lookin’ or ya buyin’?”

“Both,” Gary answers.

“Anythin’ specific?” 

Gary looks at Negan for an answer and Negan finds he doesn't really have one, so the both of them stare dumbly at him while he wracks his brain.

In the end, all he comes up with is, “...Shit, not really.”

The woman studies him deeply in all but five seconds, before a glint appears in her eye, “I think I got somethin’ fit to your likin’.” 

With that she gestures for them to follow her, and so they do- all the way to the storage room in the back of the store.

Negan never even knew this part  of the building existed. 

It's basically a warehouse full of cased guitars from floor to ceiling, shelved away for God knows whatever reason.

She leads them to the very back, where a few guitar cases lay dormant on the floor, like they'd been checked up on not too long ago.

“We’d been savin’ this one for some rich fella all the way from the east coast, but I'm sure he won't be missin’ it much,” she grunts as she pulls out the case wedged between a few others, laying it at her feet and working at the latches, “Saw your face and this came flashin’ back to me.”

Negan's a little surprised when he sees what lies inside:

A Les Paul with an aged black body, and a pickguard that must've once been white, but is now a yellowed shade of cream. 

It's very standard, very chic, and very  _ not _ Negan.

“Um,” he begins wearily, “I'm more of a Fender kinda man when it comes to electrics. My man Gary here is one badass Gibson God, though.” He pats Gary on the shoulder for effect.

The man gives him an awed look, “You're right I am, bro, but if you turn this beauty down, you're a fucking dumbass.”

“My first electric in a few years is  _ not  _ gonna be a fucking Gibson, dude. That's just plain fuckin’ betrayal.”

The woman cuts in, “I know you're one to stick with your Strats- trust me, I know; I'm a big fan. Just give this babe a chance, and you’ll see what I mean.”

Maybe it's her age and the wisdom it colors her tone with, or maybe it's her sweet southern croon- either way Negan listens.

Besides, that guitar sure is a beauty.

“Fine,” he sighs, wordlessly throwing an apology out to Jimi Hendrix wherever he lay, “I’ll give her a damn whirl.. She better fuckin’ honk it mean, though... I’m not shitting around.”

-

They never listen to the radio at the shop.

Why would they when they've got aisles upon aisles upon crates of discography right at their fingertips? 

But Arat was fiddling with the stereo and got overly excited when she actually caught a signal that wasn't completely over powered by static, s o they listened to the local classic rock station as they worked, neither of them really paying much attention due to the uncharacteristic busyness that surrounded them.

Rick was bagging a customer's items when he heard Negan's name being mentioned on the radio.

_ "Austin's own Gary Clark Jr. and Negan of The Saviors were spotted guitar shopping today. Locals say they saw the Saviors guitarist buy a vintage Les Paul, which is  _ insanely _ out of character. The dude only plays Strats when it comes to electrics, vintage or modern. Was it a gift? Does this mean new things are to come from the Saviors? Maybe some solo work? What do you guys think? Call in and let us know- leave a request while you're at it." _

Rick squinted at the news. Negan buying a Gibson? And it wasn't acoustic? And a Les Paul at that- Jesus, does he even know the man anymore? 

Negan always said Les Paul's were for bat-nostriled cokeheads like Jimmy Page or fake romantic guitar prowesses like Peter Frampton- always made a big show of his contempt towards the brand of instrument. 

Said the only one who could do a Les Paul justice was Peter Green of Fleetwood Mac and sometimes George Harrison, but only sometimes.

Negan adored Stratocasters- loved the shape, and the sound, and the versatility.

That guitar wrote songs as hard as Ace of Spades as well songs as majestic and lush as The Wind Cries Mary.

The only times Negan deigned to use a Gibson electric was when he broke Lucille, and only then. 

Sure, they're just guitars, but Rick couldn't help but dwell on the situation. 

Could it mean more? 

Is Negan changing? 

Has he already been changed? And if so, is it for better or for worse? 

“Hey… Mister dude,” A customer says, tearing him from his thoughts.

Rick looks up, acknowledging them.

They hand Rick a record, “Could you like, put this on? Wanna test it before I hit the home run.”

“Yeah, sure,” he says, and as he takes the record, he recognizes the face on the cover: It's Gary Clark Jr.’s  _ Blak and Blu _ .

He huffs a slight laugh as he plates the record, and the customer says, “Second song on side C… if you don't mind.”

Rick complies, and turns the radio down so Gary's voice can fill the room.

Much to his dismay, he likes the damn song. Gary has a nice voice, and hell the words are pretty damn relatable- nice and straight to the point with a kind of Smokey Robinson doo-wop feel.

_ My love is with you _

_ Even though you are away _

_ You made me love you _

_ So that's where my heart will stay, darling _

_ Those times I get lonely _

_ You're the one who truly knows me _

_ I can tell it in the way, darling, you show me _

_ Why don't you please come home? _

_ Come on home _

_ You've been gone way too long _

_ Ooh, come on home. _

Damn, he thinks, where was this song when he needed it? Also, why the hell does a tiny part of him feel like he  _ still _ needs it? 

The hell if he knows. 

The customer buys the record, and so does Rick once his shift ends. 

-

A 1959 Les Paul Standard in Blackburst. 

Negan takes it into his hands and plugs it into the complementary testing amp in the main room. He sits down on the luxuriously worn, brown leather couch beside it and tunes up the old lady.

Gary and the woman- Helena, it turns out- watch in anticipation, waiting for him to just play something and issue out the verdict.

He plunks out a few standard open chords, because that's important and also because he hasn't played in a fucking while.

He meets the C chord and lingers there for, unsure of what to do next as he loiters on the embellishments, buying himself time.

Somehow, a breeze leads him into a tune that everyone around him seems to recognize before he does. 

“You really gonna be that guy that plays the entirety of Stairway to Heaven at the fuckin’ vintage guitar shops?” Gary asks, voice cutting through the clean melody Negan's fingers roll out, “Whatcha gonna do next? Smoke on the Water? Come as you are? 

“I ain't takin’ requests, Gare-bear,” Negan quips, hands stilling, “but for you… Shit, I just might have to make an exception.”

Gary rolls his eyes, “In that case, put it on the bridge, turn that gain  _ ALLL _ the way up, and play her right.”

“You're a bitch,” Negan says, but complies nonetheless.

He plays a quick shuffle and is met with a thick frictional sound that makes his jaw drops a little bit. “Holy shit,” he says genuinely breathless, looking up at Gary, “That's fat.”

Gary nods smugly, and Negan goes back to the guitar, his fingers getting rawer by the minute.

It's been a while since he's played this hard, but damn this axe doesn't seem to give a shit if his fingers bleed, just so long as the strings bend and squeal.

After a while of playing, he hears another guitar join in, mean and soulful.

That's when he realizes his eyes have been closed, and when he opens them and he turns and sees Gary beside him with his favored Gibson SG in his hand, the tag still hanging off the neck.

“Go to E,” Gary says, and Negan’s fingers find the key as easy as breathing.

The neck is thick in his hands, the body hard, solid and heavy against his thigh while the rosewood lies sweet and satin underneath the aged, rusted strings. He’ll have to change those, but that's not even close to a problem.

This guitar is it, he knows it.

It feels like it's speaking to him, making all these promises that Negan's not too sure of, but hopelessly wants to believe. 

But if it makes him feel like this every time he plays it, then that's enough. 

-

Rick goes to flea markets a lot. That's where he gets most of his vinyl, because it's cheaper and usually original pressings.

And ever since Glenn got Rick into film, he spends a fair amount of time paying more attention to film soundtracks and scores, or trying to find songs that he thinks would fit the movie they're working on. 

Right now, all he’s managed to scavenge is a Fugazi record he picks up more for his own pleasure than the sake of their movie, and the soundtrack to The Big Lebowski on CD. He’s on his knees, going through crate after crate and taking his time because he feels like he has a lot of it for some reason. Usually, it’s the opposite. 

However, he can’t find anything that he recognizes, or even anything that catches his attention. The vendor, a middle aged Hispanic woman who he’s fairly acquainted with, notices this and brings it up. 

“You come here too often,” she teases from over his shoulder, startling Rick. 

He gives a nervous laugh, a little on edge from the surprise, “What can I say?” He quips.

She doesn’t answer, instead wandering off to God knows where, leaving Rick confused for a moment until she returns with a crate full of sleeveless LPs.

“You can have all of these,” she says, placing them at his side, “for free.”

It’s a dense set of records; so dense, Rick doesn’t even think he can flip through them.

“I- I can’t do that,” he says, eyes still wide.

“Yes you can,” she says easily, “They’re sleeveless, anyways. Everyone always heckles me, looking for a bargain. You never do, so take them…”

Rick eyes the records wearily, then her.

She just smiles, “Listen to ‘em. Decorate your room with ‘em. Give them to your friends- it’s almost Christmas.”

He smiles back, shaking his head slightly, “Thank you,” he says. He doesn’t even know her name.

She doesn’t know his either, but it feels unimportant now for some reason. 

Rick goes to pay for the other two things he had, and as she’s grabbing his change, Rick spots a Texas shaped key chain that makes him smile. He picks it up for further examination, and when he flips it around, he squints in disbelief, feeling like his eyes are fooling him.

But they’re not; it's just a funny coincidence.

In silver scribing on smooth black plastic, it reads:

_ To Megan, with love. _

_ Sincerely,  _

_ Texas.  _

But the M in Megan is smudged off just so that it resembles a vague N… maybe if you squint. Hell, it fooled him for a second, that’s gotta count for something. 

His mind transports back a few years, to a gas station somewhere near San Antonio with Negan, just after they’d left Rick’s parent’s house.

He remembers Glenn telling him about the mural, and Negan breaking the news to Rick about the Cavern.

_ Have you ever seen your name on one of these? _

“How much for this?” Rick asks, holding up the key chain.

She eyes it funnily, as if she doesn’t believe he’s serious, but ultimately proposes, “Let me keep the change and it’s yours.”

With his budget, he knows the change couldn’t have been much. Plus, she did just give him a crate of records without cost, so it's more than fair. 

“Deal,” he says, and then it’s his. 

In his car, he pops in the CD and places the crate in the passenger’s seat. 

The sound of Bob Dylan’s nasal Lalala’s fills the small space, and there’s got to be at least one hundred naked records beside him, calling out to him. 

With that same unprecedented, everlasting feeling on his side, he pries a record out from its dense dwelling, intending on studying the whole batch, but he actually gasps when he reads the inner circle.

Fleetwood Mac’s  _ The Pious Bird of Good Omen. _

He’s never listened to the album, doesn’t know any of the songs on it, but he’s heard the name of this album fall from Negan’s lips so many times years ago.

The man was always actively seeking it, cursing the shop when Simon refused to order the expensive and rare original pressing of it, searching thrift stores and flea markets and what not. He could never find it, and here Rick is, pulling it out on his first try by chance of fate from a crate of vinyl he got completely for free-  _ and _ he was literally just thinking about Fleetwood Mac earlier at the record store (well, Peter Green). 

Then he remembers the keychain in his pocket and it feels like it weighs a thousand, obvious pounds. 

-

_ Open the door. _

Negan reads the text off his phone from an unknown number and immediately shoots up into a sitting position on the couch, nearly knocking his precious guitar off of his lap. 

He looks anxiously from the door to the window, concealed with plastic blinds, and then down to his phone as it buzzes again. 

_ It's me. Rick.  _

Oh. Negan stares dumbly down at his phone... So he did change his number. 

He swallows down that thought as he finally goes to open the door. Behind it he sees Rick coming up the stairs, nearly breaking his back as he carries a crate of records flush to his chest. 

Negan meets him at the top of the staircase, “Jesus... and I thought I had a problem,” he says, wordlessly taking the weight off Rick’s hands, “Holy fucking shit, this is heavy.”

“They were free,” Rick says as the two of them take refuge in warmth of the small apartment, “and they’re naked.”

Negan notices an urgent excitement in the boy’s tone and lets his gaze linger on his face. Rick gets the message, and continues, saying, “I have something for you… Well, two things.” His eyes are glossy and blue, and it makes Negan smile.

“For little ole me? Rick, you shouldn’t have,” he teases. 

“Shut up,” Rick says, “and close your eyes.”   


Negan refrains from making a dirty joke, and he thinks it takes a few days off his life, that refraining. Still he complies nonetheless, smiling a tight, close-lipped smile like a fool who can’t keep serious. 

Then he feels Rick’s hand on his and it makes the hairs on his arms stand up straight, knocking the smile clean off his face. Something cold and metallic-maybe a little plasticy- meets his palm and Rick’s hand lingers for just a second too long to be marked inconspicuous. 

“Okay, open.”

He looks down at his open hand, and sees a keychain. A Texas-shaped keychain. 

“You got me a Texas shaped keychain?” Negan asks flatly.

Rick rolls his eyes, “Look at the back.”

Negan does, and Rick watches as the man does the same confused squint he himself had done back at the flea market.

Then something else flashes across his face, coloring his skin a somber shade only for a second before it gets masked by a small yet honest smile. 

“So ya fuckin’ found one, huh?” His smile shifts into a smirk, but it never loses its softness, “Kinda, sorta.”

Rick nods and feels his own skin shift, relaxing into the same somber state. For a second, things feel old, and he has an odd sense of deja vu. 

“That’s not it, though,” Rick says, breaking himself out of his own trance, “There’s something else.” He turns to the crate on the floor, grabbing the record he’d purposefully moved to the front.

“It doesn’t have the sleeve, but… I don’t know. I-I figured you might still like it,” Rick’s voice is sheepish as he hands the record over, and his form is nervous as he awaits Negan’s reaction- which is sudden. 

By just looking at the color and the font on the inner circle, Negan knows exactly what it is. His jaw drops softly, and he looks up at Rick with hesitant eyes, “You didn’t,” he says in disbelief, assessing Rick with a deep gaze.

Rick smiles giddily, letting a happy laugh slip as he nods.

“You didn’t,  _ oh my God, _ ” he says again once he deems Rick’s gift true, “Oh my God, Rick, I-” his voice breaks off, and he looks down suddenly.

Rick’s smile leaves him as he studies him further, “Are- are you crying?” 

“No,” Negan states in that wobbly, wet voice, trying to urge the concern in the boy’s voice away, “Okay yeah, I am but it’s just- I’ve been looking for this album for fucking years, man. Thank you so much, Rick. It means so much.”

Rick looks up at the softened man, “I know it does.”

Negan holds his gaze, looking deeply into his glittering eyes. He’s so sweet, Negan thinks, and he wants nothing more in this world than to just lean down and kiss him so fucking hard. 

Maybe some other time. 

For now, he settles for a hug, pulling the boy into his arms and trying not to think too much about the warm, firm chest against his. 

“Thank you,” he says again, in lieu of I love you, speaking the words over Rick’s shoulder, “Was this like a Christmas gift?”

“I guess it could be,” Rick answers “Wasn’t really thinking about that when I found these.”

“Now I feel like a huge shit,” Negan smirks, only half joking, “I didn’t get you anything.”

Rick pulls away, looking Negan in the eyes, “You’re here, and you’re alive. That’s all I wanted.”

Negan almost cries again. 

“You ever heard Albatross?” He asks, willing his second wave of tears away.

Rick gestures to the record he just gifted, “From that album?” 

Negan nods.

“No.”

“You  _ have _ to listen to it,” Negan says, “It’s the most beautiful song in the goddamn universe. Makes me feel like I’m a fucking bird flying over the moon or some shit.”

Rick notices the excitement in his eyes, glowing the same as it would in a happy, unharmed child. He hasn’t seen that look in so, so long. 

“Well put it on, then."

-

The rest of the evening fades easily into the night, melting smoothly into one another and creating a beautiful color. 

Rick, bundled up in his zebra print snuggie and drenched in that lingering feeling of timely abundance, is lying on his bed and binge watching _Narcos_ on Glenn’s Netflix account.

Negan is sat on the floor near the foot of Rick’s bed with his new, unplugged guitar in his hands and headphones on his ears that are plugged into Rick’s record player. 

He’s not even playing his guitar, not now anyways- he had been for a while. Now he just likes the way it feels solid like a lover in his lap as he leans back onto the edge of Rick’s mattress, reclining his head as he listens quietly to the music only he can hear. 

It’s that same Albatross song, running into his ears and through his bones, turning his arms into wings and his feet into nothing but the wind needed beneath them. 

He’s an albatross, shimmering a soft white gold across a sky the color of Rick’s blue eyes when he wakes up pliant and warm on a taunting Winter morning. He’s content to know that if he dies anytime soon, he has had the pleasure of seeing what Rick looks like in at least three of the four seasons the world supplies. 

Maybe, if he’s lucky, he’ll be around to see what he looks like in the fall. 

His fantasy vision is snapped in half when Rick curses aloud. 

“ _ Shit!” _ Rick hisses, slapping his laptop closed as he scrambles out of bed.

Negan removes his headphones, the music coming to a sudden halt as he watches in confusion while Rick goes about the room like a madman, “I knew I had somethin’ to do, I knew it.”   


“What are you going on about?” Negan asks.

Rick goes into his closet, grabbing a hamper full of dirty clothes, “It’s laundry day,” he says with a hint of defeat before he sighs, setting the basket down. “What am I even doing?” He’s speaking mostly to himself now, “All the laundromats near me are closed, I’d have to go all the way across town; I don’t even have gas in my car-”

“I could take you,” Negan suggests, “I know where we could go… Used to do my laundry at even later than this all the damn time.”

“No, it’s fine,” Rick says, “I can just go tomorrow.”

“Your date’s tomorrow,” Negan reminds him, though the words are stiff, “Pretty sure you got other shit to do, too. Might as well get your laundry over with right now.”

Rick eyes him funnily.

“You don’t wanna smell like ass sweat on your first date now do ya?” Negan teases, hoping it doesn’t fall short, “Not that I would give a flying fuck of a hoot, but hey, I’m just me- Who knows what  _ Aaron  _ wants you to smell like?” Negan’s tongue can not help the thick layer of jealousy it coats the name with.

A beat, and then, with a hint of irritation, “Let’s go then.”

Negan doesn’t like the way Rick’s looking at him: like he’s challenging Negan, daring him almost as he radiates annoyance, or maybe even offence. 

The man holds his gaze for a haughty second, before he retreats with a scoff, “Fucking fine,” he says, going for his keys and gathering his own dirty laundry, “I needed to do my own damn laundry, anyways..”

-

The drive to the laundromat is nothing less than tense and Negan knows it’s because of what he said, but he was just fucking joking, just trying to make shit light before his big green monster made an appearance. 

Still, he hadn’t expected Rick to be so butthurt about it…

Shit… maybe he does really like this guy , Negan thinks- and the thought evokes a sadness, deep blue and cloaked around a devilishly maroon type of chagrin. 

It makes him act up a little bit.

They’re stopped at a red light when Negan draws out a pent up sigh, the one hand he has on the steering wheel grasping tightly as he turns to Rick, who’s looking out the passenger side window, “Tell me,” he says tersely, his jaw too tight to allow more words to leak out. Maybe that’s a good thing, however; his mouth has always seemed to get him in trouble, “Just fucking tell me.”

Rick turns his head slowly, looking Negan dead in the eye with a placid look, like he’s tired or bored, “Tell you what?” He asks, though he knows, and his tone alone says he knows- a tad condescending, a tad overwrought.

Negan rolls his eyes, and finds he has to look away. He hates that he has to look away, that Rick’s gaze can actually make him uneasy sometimes- It only makes him that much more frustrated.

“Nevermind,” he spits.

Rick turns away as well, resuming his mindless staring out of the window. There’s a brief gap of silence, and then he says, “Sometimes you really annoy the shit out of me.”

It’s not said in that easy exchange of banter they’re so well acquainted with, but with true bite and aggression, lacking that fond softness that would make the words mean something else completely.

Negan pretends that it doesn’t sting, and says, without missing a beat, “Yeah? Good to fucking know,  _ baby. _ ”

“Fuck you…” Rick murmurs, moving as far away from Negan as he can without completely jumping out of the still standing vehicle.  Wouldn’t be the first time,  Rick thinks as his fingers graze the smooth metal of the door handle,  and maybe it won’t be the last.

He’s torn from his thoughts when the sound of Negan cranking his window down makes him turn his head in his direction. To say he’s surprised to see Negan handing a clean, crisp one hundred dollar bill to a raggedy-looking young man with eyes so glassy and strung out would be an understatement. 

Negan rolls the window back up and the man continues his trek down the break of traffic, begging for money, the former paying no attention to Rick’s awaiting stare.

“You know he’s probably gonna use that money for drugs,” Rick says, just to be petty. 

It rolls off of Negan, however. In fact, all of the pester that had been laid upon his face not a minute ago has vanished, replaced by heavy, grave somber. 

“That could’ve been me,” Negan says in true belief, “if I didn’t have as much pride as I do. Or if I wasn’t as privileged as I am being this giant fucking rockstar. That could easily be any of us- and maybe he will use that money on drugs; maybe that money I gave him will only pay to kill him. Maybe if I didn’t give it to him, the withdrawal would’ve killed him first. Maybe that money I gave him could pay for the last shot of dope he’ll ever take, and after that, he’ll try to turn his life around: Go to a shelter, or something- a hospital, a charity… An old friend, or lover.”

The red light finally goes green, and Rick has nothing to say, feeling immensely guilty, yet his resolve holds up too high to allow him to apologize. He does simmer down a little, though.

“I lived in my van for a few days when Alpha kicked me out of her place,” Negan points his thumb to the back of the vehicle, “Got clean in this fucker. Shat and puked myself every hour on the hour right in the back of those seats… Felt like I was gonna hit the fucking dust any minute- and I could’ve. I really fucking could’ve, I was so malnourished and dehydrated- but I didn’t,” Rick hears when Negan swallows, “Sometimes, when rehab got too hard, I’d think back on those times and I’d wish I had.”

Rick looks down at his hands, lying useless in his lap. 

“Why did- why did Alpha kick you out?” He asks after a moment.

Negan smirks, but it’s full of remorse, “Must’ve  _ really _ annoyed the shit out of her…”

“Negan, I... I didn’t mean it-”

“She was trying to get clean, I was trying to get high, and I was being a fucking dick about it," Negan continues, just so he doesn't have to hear Rick apologize, "That’s why.. and now, I don’t fucking blame her- not one goddamn fucking bit.”

-

Things eventually get lighter when they’re waiting for their clothes to dry. 

They’ve been sitting side by side despite their dispute, silently soaking in their individual thoughts as the fluorescent lights beaming down on them make everything look a little fake. It made Rick’s skin look a little sallow, and his blue eyes a little mossy.

Negan didn’t know what Rick was thinking about, but personally, Negan was hungry as fuck and thinking about cinnamon rolls. 

And not just any fucking cinnamon rolls: huge ones, like the size of a fucking 44 triple F tit huge. 

When his stomach starts rumbling, Rick turns his head, looking at Negan with an eyebrow raised in faint amusement. There’s a touch of a smile on his face.

“We had a show in San Antonio one time,” Negan begins, “and Beth wanted to go somewhere to eat at like 3 in the fucking morning. We were all tired as balls but she didn’t want to go alone, so we all went with her to like the only decent place that was open, and it was this bakery cafe or somethin’. Anyways, I go in all moody and shit, just ordering a black coffee like the edgy bitch I was and this waitress with hair purple like a damn grape goes ‘You ever had a three pound cinnamon roll?’. Of course I fucking hadn’t, so I told her as much. She said, be right back, and when she came the fuck back, she had this giant ass cinnamon roll bigger than Beth’s entire fucking body and I ate like half the fucking shit. After that I was like...damn… Texas is pretty fucking legit… Three pound cinnamon rolls- where the fuck else do you see that shit?”

Rick's mouth upturns in a tentative smile, “Was it good?”

“You bet your ass they were.. You don't make a three pound cinnamon roll just for it to be shitty.”

“That's true,” Rick says, pausing a bit before he continues, almost bashfully, “You must've seen a lot of things, huh? Been nearly everywhere around the world.”

“Yeah…”

“What was the best thing? That you saw, I mean.”

Negan thinks on that, before he decides, “California. It's the only place I wasn't too high to remember,” he huffs a laugh but Rick doesn't see what's funny.

“We recorded our second album in this really old fucking haunted mansion that Harry Houdini used to live in. It was covered by hills and so much greenery and flowers- I think you would've liked it,” There's no one in the laundromat but the two of them and still Negan's voice is nearly hushed, “I loved it. Sometimes Beth and Daryl and I would go up into the hills at the asscrack of dawn with our instruments and we’d sit there and just jam. Daryl would forget his sticks and play the drums with his hands. Beth would make all the fucking dogs and coyotes howl with her when she sang; it was so fucking cool.”

Negan has these stories that sound so colorful when spoken aloud. Rick tries to think if he has any like that, anything exciting to offer to Negan's ears, but he doesn't.

He has stories, but they're not to be shared with anyone but the people they consist of- otherwise, the listener just wouldn't get it.

Rick has stories just like Negan does, but they're more personal and much too simple to explain. He thinks they're just as good, however, even if only he himself thinks that. 

They're inside stories, he concludes.

When their clothes have finished drying and they're heading out the door, barely dipping their heads into the sheer navy of the late night slash early morning, Negan speaks, breaking their wave of half comfortable silence.

“Hey, you wanna go get cinnamon rolls?” He sounds excited and frantic like an antsy child.

Rick looks up at Negan for a second before he just laughs, so full and throaty.

“God Damn… what did I say?” Negan says indignantly, though he's wearing a heavy grin: it's hard not to smile when Rick laughs like that.

“It's.. how you said it.. You said it so.. fast,” Rick says between his fit. When he's caught his breath, he smiles back up at Negan, a glint of laughter still hanging from his eyes like the elastic drip of sap off a tree.

“Yeah, okay,” he says easily, nearly breathless, “Let's go get cinnamon rolls.”

-

They devise a plan:

Negan’ll drive them to San Antonio, they’ll go split a huge fucking cinnamon roll, and Rick will drive them back. 

It’s as simple as that in their heads- heads that are usually asleep at this time- and that’s all they think of it to be. Two people and a big cinnamon roll; they don’t even spare the thought of it possibly being something more or something less. 

Negan turns up the radio and lets out an overly excited whoop when he hears some 90s Aerosmith. Rick, however, doesn’t seem to be tickled the same shade of pink.

“What?” Negan says, sparing him a sly, sleepy glance, “You don’t like this song?”   


“It’s.. alright.”

Negan knows that’s a polite no. 

He shrugs it off, instead deciding to sing along, just to pester the boy. 

“ _ Ricky’s  _ got a gun... _Ricky's_ got a gun-”

“Oh my God…”

_ “What did his Daddy doooooo?? What did he put you throughhh???” _

Rick cringes, hiding his face in his hands because he knows what's coming, and apparently so does Negan because he's looking at Rick with endless amuse, his eyes saying,  _ Yeah, I'm gonna fucking do it. _

_ “They say when Ricky was arrested, the found him underneath a traaaaaiiiIIN,”  _ Negan's voice cracks so damn hard as he sings that last note, all wavy and weak, and it's literally so bad it surprises even  _ his _  own ears and he bursts out laughing right alongside Rick, who's blushing so hard on behalf of Negan that it looks like there's a red streetlight shining upon his pale skin. 

“That was- that,” Rick chokes on his own high pitched laughter, “I'm embarrassed and I wasn't even.. the one singing.”

“I thought I sounded pretty damn good.”

“Yeah, sure,” Rick teases, wiping tears from his eyes before he goes on trying to imitate the exact sound of Negan's voice cracking, making himself laugh that insane laugh once again, doubling over even in his seat.

Negan knows for certain he'll never be able to live that one down, but it's funny enough that he doesn't care.

When they get to the cafe, Rick's still going on about it, hiding his laughter behind his menu as he talks about how he'll never be able to hear that song in the same way now.

It's only when they're eating that Rick stops mentioning it, and even then there's still moments where he’ll let a giggle slip, and Negan immediately knows what the cause of it was. 

The woman with the purple hair is there, still working here after these past few years, and she recognizes him but does not say Hi in a way that she wouldn't do to the other customers. 

She does spare him glances though, giving kind yet pointed looks between he and Rick- like she knows, like her and Negan have been friends for life and she's rooting for him. 

He and Rick devour that damn cinnamon roll, all the while watching Friends on the TV that hangs on the wall adjacent to them. 

There's a group of tired truckers a few tables away from them- one of them wheezes every time Phoebe says something, and Rick spares Negan a funny look every time he does, like the man's laugh astounds him, like it's a special talent. Next to those truckers is a woman in scrubs sitting opposite a man in scrubs: they look tired but happy, smiles pasted rightfully and eyes glittery and puffy as they speak and watch each other. 

Negan wonders what he and Rick look like to the people around them.

They stick around for a while even when they're done eating and have paid, because Rick wants to finish the rerun of Friends that's on right now.

Negan starts falling asleep in his chair as all the carbs and his downtrodden sugar high take their toll on his already fatigued body.

Rick taps his shoulder when the episode is over, and they head out the door after Negan leaves a generous tip for the waitress with grape colored hair.

As soon as his body hits the worn cushion of the passengers seat, Negan's set on getting a good post-cinnamon roll nap, much to Rick's disappointment.

Rick lets him anyways, and turns the radio up just enough so that he can hear it and not have it startle Negan. 

They song that plays is mellow and drowsy, and it makes Rick's eyes flutter in a way that's so sweet but too dangerous.

The words make his eyelids heavier by the second as they're sung out-

_ Sometimes my love may be put on hold. _

_ Sometimes my heart may seem awful cold _

_ These times come and these times go _

_ As long as I live, all you need to know is _

_ This old dog ain't about to forget _

_ All we've had and all that's next. _

_ As long as my hearts beating in my chest _

_ This old dog ain't about to forget.  _

“Negan,” he calls, voice groggy.

The man stirs, making a noise to sound his acknowledgment.

“Wake up,” he says it with a hint of a question to his voice.

“I'm  _ tired _ ,” Negan whines.

“Me too,” Rick supplies, “Keep me awake... sing to me,” He tacks on jokingly, a lazy smile coming over him, suggesting the scene from earlier. Rick would laugh, but he doesn't think he has the energy.

Negan on the other hand is half full of sleep, doesn't catch onto the lighthearted teasing, and begins singing again- but this time there's no filter of humor or gusto or smugness or bashfulness.

It's just a voice, tired and one track minded, singing simply and almost monotonously:

_ “The other night dear, as I lay sleeping, I dreamed I held you in my arms. When I awoke dear, I was mistaken, so I hung my head and cried.. You are my sunshine, my only sunshine. You make me happy when skies are gray. You'll never know dear, how much I love you. So please don't take my sunshine away.” _

There's a pause and then Negan says, “.... I don't know how the rest fucking goes,” speech muffled as he turns his head back into the seat.

Rick spares Negan a glance, and he wishes the man was looking back at him, so he could see what was lying behind his eyes. 

It isn't until they're back at Rick's apartment, after they've mumbled their tired goodnights to each other and the man's head hits the stiff arm of the red vinyl couch that the thought occurs to Negan.

_ Shit… was that a date?  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading and I hope you enjoyed! As always, feedback and constructive criticism are more than welcome. <3


	15. I Look For You and You Look for Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs mentioned in this chapter include:  
> 'Changes' by Black Sabbath  
> 'Love is a Losing Game' by Amy Winehouse

Watching Rick get ready for his date is a fly on the wall experience. Negan’s not sure if Rick isn’t looking at him for a reason or if he’s just too immersed in the situation at hand.

Negan’s lying on the red vinyl couch, donning leather and denim and cotton, head resting on one arm rest and crossed legs perched atop the other as he bares witness to Rick’s nervous antics.

He slips in and out of button up after button up, and Negan watches time and time again as he bares his wintery skin and his rosy nipples, deciding wordlessly with his rattled mind that this one’s too blue or too wrinkled, or too obvious that it was bought from Goodwill when any clothing the color red was marked only with a two dollar price tag.

His legs are clothed in the pristine, fresh black denim of his lesser loved Levi’s while his favorite distressed and all but obliterated, faded-to-a-gray-stone-colored Levi’s are left in their drawer, shaped exactly like the curves of Rick's legs and begging to be filled.

Not once does he reach for one of the many t-shirts he owns and lives in, or one of the hoodies that have been made soft by repetitive laundry cycles over time and Negan notices gravely.

He thinks back on their first date when they’d walked through the bustle of downtown Austin to get to Terry’s show. Rick was wearing a burnt orange Texas Longhorns t-shirt and one of his few pairs of jeans that at that time had still been in a fair yet steadily receding condition. The warm and rusty color he wore exaggerated the bright blue of his eyes, even more so against the similar scheme of the sunset and the subtle, marijuana-induced red haze around his irises. His hair was lush and wild and tousled from when Negan had found him asleep on his bedroom floor and his ass and thighs in those jeans were the apple of Negan’s eye- second to his pretty pretty face, like an angel with stubble.

Sure button-ups weren’t exactly formal wear, and could be very casual, but not for Rick.

Then again, they did go to a bar show for their first date; who knows where Aaron’s taking him? Negan certainly doesn’t know, because Rick didn’t tell him. Not that it matters, because Negan really doesn’t want to know- even if his curiosity is well through the roof.

Still Negan can’t help but wonder if maybe Rick caring so much about his appearance is a good thing or a bad thing, or if Aaron is gonna see Rick undress and then get dressed again in a much more sensual way than Negan currently is now- and if he does, is it gonna be at his place or this place?

Rick’s fixing his hair when he finally acknowledges Negan’s watchful eye.

“Why are you lookin’ at me funny?” He’s looking at Negan through the mirror, his demeanor a hint teasing before he shifts back into his nerves, “Do I have somethin’ on my face??”

Negan huffs a laugh through his nose, containing no mirth or humor but rather amusement. “No,” he supplies, eyes on Rick’s for a second longer before he adds, “You look really good.”

Rick notices the lack of cursing as a safety net or a mood lightener, recognizes the organic sincerity and it makes him blush.

Negan sees the pinkness in all the center of his face and doesn't know if he should reward himself for it or not.

Rick didn’t notice the note of sadness in the man’s tone, and maybe that’s a good thing.

“Thanks,” Rick says sheepishly as he finally stops fiddling with his hair. He looks down, unable to meet Negan’s gaze.

Negan follows his lead and finally looks away, too, instead looking forward at his legs hanging over the arm of the couch and the door that Rick will be walking out of any moment now.

Some time passes and Negan’s nearly drifted off to sleep when Rick’s voice pulls him out of it.

“Hey, um..” He begins, like he doesn't know how to ask what he’s about to ask, “Do you- could you.. Is there anywhere you could stay for the night in case…?” his speech drifts away suggestively.

Negan fills in the blanks with the fears he’d been thinking of earlier. He loses his tongue for a while as it busies itself trying to swallow down his rolling stomach, “Yeah, um, I was actually planning to spend the night at Beth’s,” he says, even though he wasn’t. He was planning on hanging out with her, though, “We were gonna go jam at Gary’s,” he adds, to give his words more backbone, and at least he’s telling the truth.

“Okay,” Rick says, and Negan can feel how he looks at him through the mirror again, but the man doesn’t bother returning the gaze this time; he’s too afraid of what Rick might see.

“Yeah…” Negan mutters, still looking forward at the door that he too has to leave out of, and return through only when Rick gives him the say so.

Maybe, he thinks, he should just leave on his own accord, permanently, before Rick forces him to do so.

He could go back to California, maybe find a place somewhere here in Austin and flip flop between the two.

He likes Austin; he could never fully leave this city.

Negan thinks he’d still like Austin even if things with Rick don’t go the way he’d like them to.

-

He's lying in Beth's bed, being swallowed up by the pastel pink of her dressed and cushioned mattress and her decorative throw pillow as he stares up at the draping canopy of the same color, his guitar being played beneath his hands.

Beth's lying sideways across the foot of the bed by Negan's boots.

"What am I doing, Beth?" He asks suddenly, fingers unable to remain idle

"We're waitin' for Gary to tell us to go over," she answers.

"Yeah, but other than that? All I can think about is Rick and him being on that date. You know, we went on a date last night; we got cinnamon rolls. But I didn't think it was a date while it happened, it didn't hit me 'til we got back to his place, and now I'm just thinking: does he know that was the date to beat all fucking dates? And if he does, why would he ever want to go on another one when the one we had- and all the ones we've had- have been so fucking good. It's so natural between us, it's like fucking breathing. It just fucking happens... I know he saw that before, but does he still see it now?"

"I think he will," Beth says confidently, "I think he  _does_. He's just trying to ignore it for now."

Negan's about to ask why he would ignore it when something thin and sharp pops up and snags a cut against his cheek.

"Shit!" He curses, hand flying to his cheek.

One of his strings popped. 

He looks down at his guitar to confirm, seeing a shiny string limp and out of place.

Then he looks up at Beth, "You got any strings?"

"Just acoustic."

Negan hmphs, “I used to have a friend in high school who played hard as fuck. He'd break the same string five times in one jam sesh. He'd run out of strings for his electric and he'd put in acoustic strings and his fingers would gush like the falls but he didn't give a shit or fuck. I don't even remember his name but he was so fucking punk rock.”

"You're not stupid enough to do that, are you?"

Negan laughs, and gets to his feet, jingling his keys in his pocket, "Let's go."

-

When Negan and Beth get to the record store, Arat’s behind the counter all by her lonesome except for the book under her nose and the staticky companion of the FM radio.

“Well if it ain't my  _second_  favorite lady of all fucking time,” Negan greets, loud and proud, sparing Beth a knowing look as he speaks the word second, “I’ll be damned. You haven't changed one fuckin’ bit, darlin’. Does your hair even grow any longer than that or are you just still not able to shake that blonde?”

Arat looks up at him with little joy and very much dismay, just like she would when they shared shifts together and he wouldn't let her pick the music, or when he'd discard the music and just yap on the entire shift- but she smiles and waves at Beth.

“Rick's not here,” she states before looking down at her book again.

Negan snorts a laugh, “I fuckin’ know that.”

“Of course you do, you're always up that kids ass.”

“Tou-fucking-che, Arat,” he says, leaning onto the counter while Beth goes off to venture down the aisles of the store, “Now tell me, we got any 11s in stock?”

“Depends what kinda 11s you want. Ernies, Eclipses, D’addarios… I'm talking to you, dumbass!”

Negan was paying attention, he really was, but then a voice on the radio caught his attention.

_We’ve got more news on the tragic death of artist, model, and photographer Alpha who made her name immortalizing the Austin- born rock band The Saviors through pictures, and who was also rumored to be in a relationship with the guitarist, Negan. She was only twenty-seven years old…_

He feels something dull and heavy sink his gut when he hears her cause of death.

Alpha, who had been clean for almost two years, had died due to complications during childbirth.

She had managed to get clean, had managed to conceive with whoever it was that made her want to be a better person; but still it wasn't enough and she was sentenced to death, leaving behind a baby girl and a first time father.

All Negan can think about is how unfair it is, and how it should've been him.

It should've been him.

But then he thinks of Rick and Beth and Daryl and Dwight and Gary and Glenn and Maggie, and he's thankful it wasn't even though he hates how selfish that thought is.

If it hadn't been for Alpha and her tenacity towards getting clean despite the bitterness Negan had thrown towards her for it, he'd probably still be using.

The both of them, maybe. It would've taken him longer to get back to Rick: he probably would've never even made it back to Rick.

He’ll never get to thank her to her face, or apologize.

If the afterlife is anything like how he’d like it to be, he thinks maybe she already knows.

“Negan?” Beth says, full of caution, “Negan..?”

He looks up at her, but he feels a little absent, like he's not controlling his body or like he's in an odd dream.

Arat watches him apologetically, though she doesn't know the half of it. She can still see how the news has affected him.

Beth gives him a look that asks him if he's okay.

Negan can't do anything but turn back to Arat and say, “I’ll take the Ernies.”

Arat eyes him incredulously, but grabs the pack from beneath the counter, saying, “Just take them,” and not allowing him to pay.

Negan doesn't argue with her, and soon they're leaving back to Beth’s house.

“Maybe you shouldn't drive,” Beth suggests.

“I can drive,” Negan says blankly, and they get into the van.

Beth looks hesitant about that but she doesn't say a word more, not until they've left her house again and are a few minutes away from Gary's.

“Do you want to talk about it?” She asks softly, quietly, bashfully- like she’s afraid of what Negan could say or do in response. Sometimes Negan feels that way about himself, too.

He wants to keep it all inside, wants to let all that happened between him and Alpha stay between him and Alpha- unjudged and unknown- but he knows he can’t. He knows that with time, doing that will only hurt him and the people around him just as it has before.

“If it weren’t for her, I wouldn’t be here right now getting the chance to change,” Negan swallows the hard lump of tears in his throat, “That’s all I think.. and that I loved her. Not like how I love Rick, and not like how I love you, but I loved her. Maybe in another life we coulda been something together, something way fucking better than what we got dealt in this one, but I don’t regret her or what we did together one bit. It changed me as a person-  _she_  changed me as a person for better and worse and she’s the one that still allows me to change to this day. I’ll never get to thank her for that, at least not to her face.” 

Beth, oblivious to the many sides of Alpha only Negan got to see, doesn’t understand what he’s saying, but thinks she can begin to by looking at the footprints of all the memories and recollection emerging from the surface of Negan’s face.

“It’s not just her,” she says, “It’s you, too. You let yourself change.”

Negan lets her words sit in his head, lets them permeate through the wrinkles in his brain.

“Yeah,” he agrees, “Yeah… I guess I fucking do.”

The radio plays a song like it always does, but Negan can’t hear it. Instead he thinks of another song, one he always thinks of when he hears the word change:

_I feel unhappy_

_I feel so sad_

_I lost the best friend that I ever had_

_She was my woman_

_I loved her so_

_But it's too late now_

_I've let her go_

_I’m going through changes_

_I'm going through… changes_

-

Rick's date with Aaron was supposed to be the standard dinner and a movie type deal, but they didn't even make it half way through the dinner portion.

Rick was insanely nervous, like past the casual first-date butterflies and bordering on throwing up kind of nervous, and Aaron only looked slightly less worse for wear.

He wasn't this nervous with Jesus, partly because their date was a casual walking through the park eating hotdogs and chatting about work and life and music sort of ordeal. He didn't feel pressured then to do much of anything but be present.

It's not that Aaron's pressuring him, that's far from the case, it's  _Rick_  who's pressuring himself and he very well knows it.

He feels his palms get all sweaty and his forehead start to glisten as he thinks about possibly having to sleep with this guy, about having to kiss him- even if it's just to be polite, about having to sit through dinner with him  _and_ a movie and try to be comfortable but still sexy enough to get laid.

Fuck, he doesn't even want to get laid, not by someone he doesn't even know, but he suppresses that thought. He tells himself he does and that it’ll be fine and it's just sex and if Negan could do it then so could he.

How did Negan even do this? It's like it comes naturally for him or something.

For Rick.. it just doesn't.

They're sat at some restaurant that Rick would only be able to afford if he'd been saving for a few weeks, of if he used Negan for some mild sugar daddy shenanigans. It's not that it's fancy, it's a quaint little restaurant, family owned and heirloom recipes and all that. Rick's just that fucking broke.

He's sat in front of Aaron and they're making stunted small talk about the movie, about the script and the vision they have for the film.

Rick has a hard time looking Aaron in the eye for too long. They're so blue that they remind him of himself, and Rick can't help but wish they were a color that was warmer and browner with a little hint of green, rimmed and smudged with a smokey shade of black.

His food sits in front of him nearly untouched because both his mind and stomach are too full of nerves to eat in front of the guy. He can't even  _eat_ in front of him, how the hell is he gonna have sex with the guy or be butt-ass naked with him or kiss him or have kids with him if it comes down to it?

Rick vanishes those thoughts. Who the hell said anything about having kids? It's just a date… just a goddamn awkward as all hell date.

For Christ’s sake, just last night he was downing a huge helping of cinnamon roll in front of Negan, cinnamon butter and icing running down his chin, while he was dressed in a ratty pullover and sweatpants and laughing so hard his food would fly out of his mouth and land on Negan's shirt. Now he can barely take a sip of his water without blushing and-

 _Holy_   _shit…_  did he and Negan go on a fucking date last night?

He's mid-sip when the thought occurs to him, his lips still latched onto the straw, but before he can think any further on it, Aaron's phone starts ringing in his pocket.

Rick watches as he fumbles with his jeans to retrieve it, spilling out frantic apologies as he does so, saying, “Oh God, I’m so sorry, I should've turned it off,” as if they're already at the movies.

Honestly, Rick's glad it started ringing… anything to get Aaron to stop rambling on about the different kinds of foam covering for overhead mics.

When Aaron's gaze meet the contact name displayed across his screen, his eyes go wide and blank. Rick watches in vague confusion.

“Uh, I'm sorry..” Aaron says, but he sounds anything but as he excuses himself, “I've gotta take this.”

“Go ahead,” Rick says, trying not to sound so relieved whenever Aaron gets up from the table and begins making his way to the restrooms near the back.

Maybe he'll leave without telling Rick, and he'll be free to go home and maybe just _make_  Negan think his date went good and he had sex or something.

Or maybe he could tell Negan the truth, and maybe they could talk about the hard shit they've been pushing away. Or maybe they could make love or maybe they could fuck and Negan could sleep in the same bed as him again.

Rick could just let his weaknesses lay out on display like laundry on a clothesline, and tell Negan he only wants to have sex with  _him_  and kiss  _him_  and sleep with  _him._  No one else. Because no one else is good enough.

Rick eats his food while Aaron's gone, popping potato wedge after potato wedge into his mouth and wondering if Aaron really did leave and if he should leave, too and how the fuck is he gonne pay for this guy's food?

Just as he's trying to make up his mind, Aaron returns, feigning apology while his face reads only urgency.

“Rick, I.. I’m really sorry. My friend he, um, he broke his ankle and he's in the hospital. I'm the only person he knows in this city and I-”

“It's fine,” Rick says, giving him an honest smile, “Really, Aaron, you can go.” He has a feeling Aaron's using the word friend a little too lightly.

Aaron looks wholly grateful, eyes still wide and urgent, but beaming, “Thank you, Rick, really. Maybe we could… try this again?”

Rick knows he's only saying that to be polite.

He laughs, “Yeah, I don't think so, Aaron.”

Aaron smiles, unoffended as he pulls on his coat, “See ya at work, Rick.”

“See ya at work, Aaron.”

Later on, Rick will find out through Glenn that much like himself, Aaron has an ex boyfriend who he just couldn't seem to shake off and didn't really want to in the first place.

-

Rick needs to talk to someone about the date. He's not exactly sure who, though.

Tara's gone back home, and so has Noah- but he said he'd be back soon.

Not soon enough for Rick, however.

He can't talk to Negan about it; at least not now, and Glenn and Maggie are out of the question because you tell one and the other will know sooner than later. Never mind they're the ones who set him up with Aaron in the first place. That would just be weird, complaining to them about the failure of their matchmaking.

 _Screw it,_  he thinks as he plops into the drivers seat of his car, he's just gonna call Tara.

She picks up just when Rick doesn't think she will, but for a moment it's just her breathing heavy.

“Uh… Tara?”

She seems to snap out of it, “Bad timing, dude. Really,  _really_  bad timing.”

Rick's about to ask why when he hears Rosita's voice, all sweet and sultry and suggestive, saying only for Tara's ears, “ _Quién es, mi alma?”_

Rick's eyes go wide as he puts two and two together.

“Oh,” he says dumbly, cheeks flushing with embarrassment.

“Yeah,” Tara says pointedly, “I’ll call you later, dude… If my tongue still works.”

Rick grimaces and hangs up in a flash.

“Oh my god, ew,” he says to himself as he tosses his phone onto the passenger's seat like it's severely wronged him.

He's pulling out of the parking lot when he figures maybe he can talk to Arat. They've gotten pretty close after all; she set him up on a date for Christ's sake, and she knows Negan pretty well, too.

Desperate, he decides, yeah, that's who he’ll talk to and he begins his drive en route to the record shop, knowing she'd been scheduled to work today.

When he walks up to the counter and sees only Andrea behind the desk, he's a little perplexed.

“Dang, Rick. You clean up well,” she comments smugly, boots kicked up onto the counter as she leans back easily in her chair, inspecting Rick from head to toe, “I've never seen you in a shirt that didn't have at least one toothpaste stain on it.”

Rick ignores her remarks, instead asking, rather impatiently, “Where's Arat?”

“You just missed her,” she answers, “She had to leave, Simon called me in, and here I am.”

Rick groans, leaning forward onto the chipped wood and laying his head against it in defeat.

She scoffs, “What's  _your_  damage?”

Is he really gonna spill his beans to Andrea of all people? Is he really that desperate?

Honestly… yeah, he is.

She’ll probably laugh at him or something but she'd do that no matter what he told her, he figures, might as well just do it.

He sighs as if to dispel a blockade in his lungs, and then says, “I had a really bad date.”

“With Negan? What'd he do?”

“No, not Negan.”

Andrea’s face twists, “Aren't you two together? He was calling you baby and giving you bedroom eyes just the other fucking day.”

“We’re not together,” he informs, but the words feel mistaken, “It's just… that's the thing, I… I don't know… I went on a date with the sound guy for me and Glenn's movie, Aaron, because I just.. I guess I just wanted to prove to myself that I could do it and be normal and try to put myself out there and give and receive casual affection, but it went so bad. I didn't even kiss him, I barely hugged him and it was like a hug you give your grandparents or a long lost relative you don't really know. And even then I felt like I could barely even do that, and I had planned on trying to at least get to second base with the guy. He had to leave early, and I was so relieved because I knew I wouldn't be able to fucking do it. I don't know why. Other people can do it, even when they know they're in love with someone else. Like Negan, I know he's in love with me, but he was still able to go through with hook ups and things like that. I can't, and I don't know what's wrong with me that makes me like that. Maybe I'm just weak.”

When he looks up at Andrea, she's not looking at him like he's pathetic as he had expected. Instead she eyes him with a soft yet solid empathy, lingering before she says, “You  _could_  do it, Rick, if you really wanted to, if you really did like Aaron but you  _don't_  want to and you  _don't_  like him in that way and that's no problem. Only being able to bang Negan because he's the only one you have sexual feelings for or feel comfortable enough with or whatever is fine; it's your business and it doesn't make you weak.” Andrea says, “Remember how I told you my ex boyfriend cheated on me and I fucked his best friend to get back at him?”

Rick nods.

“I did that for the same reason you went on that date: to try and deny how weak I felt from getting my heartbroken and because I resented the fact that I couldn't understand how someone could fuck someone they didn't have feelings for- and I wished I could have that advantage if I ever needed it.”

“It was the stupidest thing I ever did,” Andrea admits, “Sure I got the deed done, I got revenge on my ex and fucked up his greatest friendship, but at what cost, y’kno? It was more like punishment on my own part. I made myself so uncomfortable by denying my own sexuality.”

Rick blinks.

“And you've got to realize Negan didn't sleep with other people to hurt you. He did it probably just to do it, because he wanted a warm body or wanted sex. Sex to him, with strangers, is more than likely just an activity. Just because it's more than an activity for you doesn't mean it's that way for him or for anyone else.”

“Wait,” Rick says, perplexed, “My sexuality? What does this have to do with my sexuality? I came to terms with my sexuality years ago.”

Andrea rolls her eyes, “I'm not talking about the  _who_  you fuck kind of sexuality, I'm talking about the  _why_  you fuck sexuality.”

Rick's brow only furrows even further.

“Me and you, we fuck when we're in love. Sure, sometimes people think that's makes us prudes or pussies, but it's just when we're most comfortable. Some people fuck as a primal need, some people don't like to fuck at all. Some people, it fluctuates,” she shrugs, “We’re all different, but you shouldn't feel pressured to be this way or that way when it comes to the reason you fuck. Just do you, and fuck when you want to and don't when you don't.”

Rick takes a moment to consider that, looking thoughtfully down at the wood of the counter, and Andrea must catch something that sweeps across his face, because she adds, “And fuck  _who_  you want, too. Don't try to fight yourself, you'll just end up hurting yourself.”

And other people, too, Rick thinks.

“That explains a lot,” Rick says after a while, after he's thought back on his sexual history, “For a long time I thought I was a scared little boy who needed to just jump into sex to get the swing of things. Then I did it, and it felt wrong, kind of. I just shrugged it off as a first time thing, but then everytime felt a little off. Orgasms didn't seem all that great, then. Just felt like a real big sneeze.”

Andrea stifles a laugh between her pressed lips.

“Then I met Negan, and with him it was.. everything. It was like a really really good dream,” he tries to recall the times without any graphic details for the sake of Andrea’s ears and his own dignity, “When we broke up, and I still spent years only able to think sexually of him and no one else, I thought I was just super hung up on him. But now I know it's more than that.”

Just when Andrea looks like she might actually share a smile with him, she looks away, shifting into her placid grimace, “Yeah well, you're welcome.”

_Figures.._

Rick smirks, “Thanks. It's nice to know there's a heart lying somewhere inside you.”

-

Rick gets back to his apartment and it's empty for the first time in a while.

Again, he is reminded of his options: He could text Negan, tell him that it's okay for him to come back or he could let the man think he went through with it, that he actually had sex with someone else.

After his talk with Andrea, Rick sees no point in the latter. He knows he wants Negan, has known it for over five years.

That definitely enough time to be sure.

Still he takes his time, deciding to first spend a little time with himself before he does anything.

The thought occurs to him that maybe tonight could be the night he has sex for the first time in a long time- and with Negan, if he'll have him. He feels his heart skip a beat, but it's in a good way; invigorating, even.

He connects his phone to the stereo system of his record player and puts on his own playlist, letting the music fill the room.

He strips himself of his clothes and then pours himself a plastic cup full of cheap wine, taking it with him to his bathroom as he runs himself a hot bath, adding in bubbles because he thinks he deserves them.

Before he gets in, he returns back to his phone to shoot Negan a text. Once it's out there, he retreats to his bath, submerging himself in the sudsy escape before he can over think his decision.

He leans his head back against the tile, letting the warm water soften his tense flesh. He wasn't really paying much attention to the music that was playing around him, but rather regarded it as background noise.

Until he heard a certain song.

It's the song that had played on the radio when Rick had stepped out of Negan's van that one burning hot day in July all that time ago.

He doesn't know why he put that song on his playlist but at the same time he does. Still, whenever it comes on, he always skips it. But now, as he sits in the bathtub, paralyzed by relaxation and discouraged by the thought of getting water everywhere, he can’t be bothered to change it.

So he closes his eyes and listens, letting himself be transported back to that painful, confusing, frustrating time as the words run into his head. He hears parts of the song he never got to hear before:

_There is a time when we all fail_

_Some people take it pretty well_

_Some take it all out on themselves_

_Others they take it out on friends_

_Oh, everybody plays the game_

_And if you don't you're called insane_

Every conflicting feeling returns to him once again, fresh and gaping, as if it had all just happened a minute ago. But it didn’t: It was nearly six years ago and Rick still doesn’t understand what went wrong, what he did wrong- if he even did do anything wrong.

Rick sinks down into the soapy water, lying back into it until he’s completely submerged, water muting the sounds of music to his ears and begging him not breathe lest water line his lungs and sting him neutral.

He comes up a long moment later, gasping for breath.

-

_You can come back_

It hasn’t even been an hour since Negan has left Rick’s apartment, not even thirty minutes since he’s learned of Alpha’s death.

Negan stares down at the text, ominous and glowing. It could mean only one thing or it could mean many things. Rick’s date could’ve gone miserably (is it a bad thing that the thought brings a little life back into him?) or he could still be on this date, but just decided he didn’t want to bring Aaron back to his place, or the date could be going extremely well and Rick’s decided on going back to Aaron’s place.

He shows the text to Beth while Gary’s in another room, tuning his guitar.

“What the fuck could this even fucking mean?” Negan asks, befuddled and distressed, “He didn’t even put a period for fucks sake. What if he was too busy  _getting_  busy to put a fucking period?”

Beth dismisses his spare ramblings, and looks at the phone, then back at Negan, “It means you can come back,” she says.

“Jeez, as if I can’t fucking read,” Negan grumbles, pocketing his phone, “I’m talkin’ in between the fucking lines, Beth, motherfucking context clues, goddammit. How am I supposed to find out the circumstances behind this fucking text?”

“Maybe if you go back, you’ll find out.”

“Right now?”

“Whenever.”

Negan sighs, thinking about all he’s been dealt just in this past hour, then in the past twenty four hours, then in the past week, then month, then year, then five years. “I don’t know if I want to,” Negan says, finally, “I love Rick… so much.. but I’m just so tired. I’m getting old, man, I’m gonna be fucking thirty soon.” He scrubs a hand over the face he swears he can feel aging by the second, feeling the weight of all his years, though slim in comparison to most, weigh down on him, "Maybe I should just let him go. You know, like how they say that cheesy shit about letting shit go and if it comes back to you it really is your shit, or something.”

“You let him go for five years,” Beth says, “You can’t own him, but I think that’s enough time to know whether or not you’ve got him. Whether or not he's worth it.”

Negan sighs again, light and shallow, “I think.. maybe he’s got me more than I’ve fucking got him, man.”

Beth humors him, saying, “Why don’t you go find out? Settle this shit once and for all.”

A groan splits his lips, “I don’t want him to see me all fucking bummed out about Alpha,” he admits, “I feel like maybe he’d get jealous or something.”

“Why don't you tell him how you feel about her, just let him know. He’ll understand.”

“If he’s even there when I get back.”

“Stop bein’ so damn mopey, and just fuckin’ go already.”

“And leave you here with Gary?” Negan questions with a brow raised in suspicion.

“Daryl trusts me, I trust me, I don’t care if you don’t, dickwad.”

Negan smirks, “Just checking.”

-

When Negan gets back to Rick's apartment and sees clothes strewn about the floor, he nearly loses it, thinking Rick texted him as a means to play a cruel cruel joke on him and make him walk in while he was in the middle of a fuck.

But then he realizes those clothes are all Rick's from when he was tearing his dressers apart trying to find an outfit and also  _isn't that the outfit he was wearing when he left?_

For a second he thinks maybe his last assumption was right, and that Rick just decided to go back to Aaron's place to be polite and give Negan a place to sleep where he wasn't bothering anyone, but then he hears the music and he sees Rick's phone plugged into his stereo system.

His brows furrow, “Rick?” He calls out.

“In here,” Rick says with a hint of a laugh and his voice is sweet to Negan's ears.

Negan turns towards the sound and sees the restroom door ajar, sees Rick lounging in a tub of bubbles and he nearly strains his neck doing a double take.

Well fucking shit.. how the hell did he manage to miss that? This is the shit of his fucking fantasies.

He makes his way closer to the boy, hesitantly yet eagerly somehow, until he's standing in the doorway, unsure whether or not he should step foot over the threshold.

When he looks down at Rick, he sees the boy looking up at him with curious eyes.

“You can come in,” Rick says, and so Negan enters the cramped space, trying so hard not to let his eyes linger too long on the glistening skin of Rick's firm chest or the hair that's sparse and spattered around. Something- maybe it's the way his dick twitches in his pants, or the way his eyes stare at the water over his lap as if willing it to disappear- tells hims he's failed miserably.

He sits on the closed seat of the toilet, looking down at his own knees, covered in denim.

Things are quiet except for the song that plays.

It's an Amy Winehouse song, one he's heard through Beth, and the voice of the late woman fills the space between them.

_For you I was a flame_

_Love is a losing game_

_Five story fire as you came_

_Love is a losing game_

_One I wish I never played_

_Oh, what a mess we made_

_And now the final frame_

_Love is a losing game_

He feels something bump his leg, and he looks to see a plastic cup being offered to him, half full of wine.

Negan denies the offer with a shake of the head, “No thanks, I don't… do that anymore. My therapist back when I was in rehab said it'd be better for me if I just went completely square.”

Rick's hand retreats and he nods almost apologetically. Then he downs the contents of his cup with a shrug, “More for me.”

Negan smiles, finds it a little easier to look at Rick now and not completely dwell on his body, as if the effects of the alcohol are taking a toll on him by proxy, making him more at ease.

“How did your date go?”

Rick sighs but it's with an easy smile, “He left in the middle of it. Had an emergency… or somethin’ like that.”

Negan raises an eyebrow, thinking who in their right mind would stand up Rick? “Really?” He asks.

“Mhm.”

Negan huffs, “Well he's a fucking idiot… Can't say I'm not happy he did it, though.”

Now Rick raises an eyebrow, “And why's that?”

Negan steals glimpses at his slick back hair, wet and curly and tucked behind his ears, at his flushed cheeks and at his knee, bent at the joint and peeking out from underneath the water.

“You know why,” is what he says.

"I still want you to tell me.”

He rolls his eyes. Rick's so stubborn. Hell, maybe Negan is, too.

“I thought,” he bites his lip, rolling it between his teeth. The words still sound so pathetic in his head, “I thought we were together.”

There's a silent pause, even the music goes quiet.

“Oh,” Rick says dumbly, like he wasn't expecting that answer, before he looks up at Negan, eyes full of apology, “I- I should've told you. Shouldn't have lead you on like that. I thought you knew, but... I guess I didn't try hard enough to make it a point.”

“It's alright. I know now.”

Rick looks down at the water- the bubbles are starting to fade now, leaving him uncovered and vulnerable, "It's not alright, Negan," He says, "and I'm sorry. I wanted to hurt you, to make you jealous and prove to you that I wasn't weak. Now I know you never thought that I was... It was dumb and it was selfish, what I did, but I... I know myself better now." He runs his hand across the water, creating gentle waves, "I get to know myself a little better everyday now."

"Me too," Negan says and a peace clings between the both of them, "And you don't have to be sorry. I'm not anymore."

He figures if there was a good time to tell Rick about Alpha, it would be now- when things are quiet and uninterrupted- but he finds he doesn't want to. Not because he's afraid of how Rick will react, but because he doesn't want to bring the pain back into the air. The two of them have had enough pain surrounding them for a while.

So he'll tell Rick another time, when it actually feels right. If it ever does. 

Then another familiar song starts, sounding with a mystical strum and a wind-like chime, and Negan finds something else that feels right to say. 

"I love you, Rick," he says, and Rick softens, eyes getting that gooey look to them as they bore into Negan's.

"I love you, too, Negan," he says, before he adds, "I want to kiss you."

Without missing a beat, Negan's leaning impossibly forward, meeting Rick more than halfway to capture his lips in a long awaited kiss. He can't help himself if he gets a little carried away, if his tongue becomes too invested in licking it's way into Rick's mouth, tasting him completely along with the cheapness of the wine that taints his lips, or if his hand can't grip the curls at the nape of his neck hard enough. 

He's wanted this for so long, and he thinks so has Rick, if the moans he hums and the fervor he kisses back with is any indication. 

"I've only ever wanted to kiss you," Rick says, breathless when he pulls away, punctuating his confession with another quick kiss before he continues.

"Only ever wanted to fuck you." Kiss.

"Only ever wanted to be with you." Kiss.

"Only ever wanted you." Kiss. " Just you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading! I hope you all enjoyed and as always, feedback and constructive criticism are more than welcome! <3  
> Expect somethin sexy next chapter ;)


	16. And You Shall Take Me Strongly in Your Arms Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs mentioned in this chapter include:  
> 'Sweet Thing' by Van Morrison

The mystical strum and the wind like chimes:

_Oh sweet thing, sweet thing_

_My sweet thing_

_And I will raise my hand up into the midnight sky_

_And count the stars that's shining in your eyes_

_Just to dig it all and not to wonder_

_That's just fine_

_And I'll be satisfied not to read in between the lines_

_And I will walk and talk in gardens_

_All misty wet with rain_

_And I will never ever ever ever grow so old again_

_Oh sweet thing, sweet thing_

_Sugar baby_

_Sugar baby, with your champagne eyes_

_And your Saint-like smile._

Rick glitters at him, like the waves of the ocean on the California coast when they shift and rock beneath the warm sun rays.

Golden warmth on liquid azure.

That's one reason why pulling away can sometimes be the best part of the kiss.

But Negan keeps going back for more, nearly falling in over the tub as Rick pulls him in closer by the reins of his hair.

It's inevitable when Rick ends up on his back, legs eagerly spread, skin towel dried and curls damp, as he lays on his bed, Negan hovering over him with his eyes trained on the thick, flushed cock resting stiffly against the smoothness of his lower belly.

Rick yanks the hem of his leather jacket, saying, “Take it off, get naked, take it off.” He's practically squirming for it, and Negan's obeys quickly, stripping himself of his jacket and his shirt before he leans back in to join their mouths again, relishing the feeling and the sound of their lips smacking and their tongues gliding and slipping along one anothers like they're in a dirty French movie, all while Rick cants his hips up, searching for friction in the rough denim of Negan's jeans.

When he can't find it easily enough, he rolls his way on top, sitting on Negan's groin and stopping for a second to just to look down at the man, who for once in a rare moment looks very frazzled, very flushed.

He lets his eyes venture down the lines of his body, from his shoulders down to the belt of his jeans, and the flush grows deeper.

“I didn't tell you enough,” Rick says, a touch melancholy but ever aroused, “You're beautiful,” he traces a finger down his sternum then around to follow the line of his ribs, “So beautiful.”

Negan manages to look both uncomfortable and pleased.

Rick plants a soft kiss on his mouth. “Always have been,” he says as he trails the kisses down the side of his neck, following the curve of his shoulder all the way down to his arms, kissing all the scars and the faded tattoos, “Always will be.”

“Even when I'm thirty?” Negan teases, voice slack from the affection.

“Even then,” Rick assures confidently, kissing his way back up his arm, now following the path to his chest.

“What about when I'm fifty and my hairline starts to recede and my dick game goes weak?”

Rick spares Negan a pointed glance to show just how insufferable he is.

“Even then,” he says either way, punctuating his affirmation with a mouth around the man's nipple. Negan sucks in a sharp breath, and Rick returns, saying, “Especially then.” He flicks the wet nub, coaxing it to hardness, while he rolls the other between his nimble fingers.

“ _Fuuuck_ , Rick,” Negan groans, already writhing beneath him, “I fucking believe you.”

Rick smirks, “That's right,” he chimes, slinking down Negan's body until he's faced with the growing bulge strained against faded black denim. He plants a kiss on the man's lower belly, just for good measure, “What do you want, baby?” He asks, unbuckling Negan's belt as he does.

Negan can't even begin to think when Rick gets his pants off and starts palming him through the thin fabric of his boxers.

When he can't scrounge up a thought, the only thing he can think is how fucking good it feels, how much greater it would feel if that one scant layer of cotton wasn't there to intrude.

Negan hums deep with pleasure, “Just rub my dick,” he says, “that's more than fucking good for now.” When he looks down and sees a wet spot already at the front of his boxers he adds, “I might come in like… fifteen fucking seconds, fifteen and a half tops.”

Rick strips him of his boxers, tossing them aside, revealing skin and an unfamiliar tattoo, “If you come in fifteen, I'll probably come in five- is that a rose tattoo?”

Rick runs his thumb over the extravagant ink, red and green and bright, right below where the hem of his waistband sat, sitting just atop his hip bone.

“I was drunk and I lost a bet,” Negan explains simply, having no time to loiter in his embarrassment or go into elaborate detail because then Rick's hand is on his cock, smoothing the pearly bead of his slickness down his shaft, and it stocks his brain full of nothing but ecstasy.

“I like it,” Rick says.

Negan can't remember the last time a fucking handjob felt this damn good.

Rick looks ever focused with his hand wrapped around Negan's cock, ready and willing to reacquaint himself with these parts of the man as his hand pumps him nice and steady.

“Look at you,” Negan purrs, making the boy look at up at him from between his legs, “All naked and pretty, touchin’ my dick,” Rick looks up just as he brings his other hand into the mix, rubbing just beneath the head of Negan's cock with the pad of his thumb, making the man hum pleasantly, “God, those fucking eyes, man.  _Fuck_. They could end wars.. Or start them- I don’t fucking know, but they’re pretty as all fucking fuck.”

Rick revels in the compliment, laughing smugly as he strokes tightly at the base, “You talk too much,” he says, but the words are wrapped in fondness.

Negan rocks his hips up into Rick’s fist, up into the fingers that have encircled tight around the head of his cock, “Jesus fucking Christ,” he moans, long and drawn out, “You got fucking better at this, huh?” His voice is ridden with tease despite the breathiness that breaks it up.

Rick blushes and its furthered with a sheepish smile, “Got a lot of practice. I think I masturbated more these past five years than I have in my entire life prior. Kept me sane”

Negan pictures Rick wreathing and squirming all under his own hand, his chest blushing bright red- not far from how it is now- and heaving with his labored breaths, balls bouncing up and down with his eager strokes, thighs spread so wide apart, stomach and hand covered in his pearly load- maybe on the bed they're laying on right now, maybe on the bed of his childhood bedroom six hours away.

“Thought about getting silk sheets,” Rick adds, to which Negan replies with, “I’ll fucking buy them for you,” because wouldn’t that just be the prettiest fucking picture: Rick Grimes naked and thrashing his hips against smooth silk sheets, ass clenching and cock spilling cum, ruining the fabric in the greatest way possible.

He nearly comes right then and there, but holds back, just so he can ask, eyebrow raised lasciviously, “You think of me, Rick? Everytime you touched yourself?”

Something in his face twitches for only a second, before it becomes resolved; like Rick forgave it. Then he falls into something else, eyes dark and sultry, lips shiny and plump as he nods, making that simple act sexy somehow.

Negan bites his lip as one of Rick’s hands moves down to fondle his balls, rolling them around gently in his hand, the other hand never stopping its strokes. “Mmm, you think of my dick in your ass, baby? How I always fucked you just fucking right?” He groans at a particularly tight stroke, the blushing head of his cock disappearing briefly as it went through Rick’s fist, “Always right for baby, yeah?  _Shit, I’m gonna cum_ \- move your hand higher, right at the head-  _Fuck!”_ Negan has to fight his panting, “C’mon baby, tell me what you’d think about. I wanna-  _oh,_ I wanna fucking know.”

Rick looks determined and ever the multitasker as he teeters Negan over the edge, saying, “Thought of you, in between my legs.. makin’ me cum with your tongue up my ass, maybe some fingers, too. Sometimes I’d think of you buried up inside of me, filling me up, making me yours,” their eyes lock, and Negan doesn’t expect what he’s about to say: “Most of the time I- I’d think about getting to spread you out, make you cum just with my cock, wonderin’ just how tight your ass would be-”

Negan’s orgasm hits him hard before Rick can even finish his sentence, and goddamn, Negan wanted him to finish that fucking sentence. 

“Well, I’ll be fucking shat,” Negan mumbles, breathless and nearly unintelligible, his cum all over his stomach and on Rick’s hand, “But, uhh- what were you saying, darlin’? You wanna go ahead and repeat that one more fuckin' time, real nice and slow? Maybe while you're rubbing your nipples.”

Rick rolls his eyes, wiping his hand on Negan’s stomach as retribution, “Don’t be a dick.. Knew it wouldn’t be your cup of tea, but I figured I could let myself dream a little.”

“Did you not just fucking see how hard I just fucking came? My dick was like a fucking power hose because of what you said!”

He notices the weary blush on Rick’s cheeks, how his dick has wilted just a bit from what he assumes must be embarrassment, or maybe disappointment.

“We never got to do that,” Rick says, and Negan hears immediately that it was not any of those former things, but sadness that had been to blame.

He feels it come upon him, too as he watches Rick, who looks up at him, still weary, “Did you ever let anyone…?” He can’t finish the rest of his question, but Negan knows what he’s asking.

He shakes his head no, “Felt too fucking personal.” He sits up, face now inches away from Rick’s, “But I wanna do that with you. I only trust you.”

Rick smiles, his gaze lingering on Negan before he pulls him into a kiss that starts sweet and leaves them at the pace they’d been at just a few minutes ago: Rick between Negan’s spread legs, ready to do what the man wants him to do.

“So we’re doing this?” Rick asks, just to clarify.

Negan nods but looks tentative, a rarity in Rick’s eyes, but he sees it more often nowadays. “Just, uh- It’s just that I’ve never fucking done this before. I’ve only stuck my fingers up my ass like three fucking times years ago and I could never find my fuckin’ g-spot, so this is intimidating as shit.”

“I’ll be gentle,” Rick assures, rubbing his hands softly against Negan’s warm thighs, “Just like you were with me.”

With that being said, Rick sinks further between his legs, a touch unsure of what to do with so much power over the man.

He does what he's always wanted to do, what he's spent the past years dreaming of:

He takes his time littering the soft skin of Negan's inner thighs with kisses, sucking and biting marks into the sensitive expanse, before he moves up to lap his tongue at the ink on his hip, making Negan whirl and hum before Rick bends his knees into his chest, putting him on full display.

He takes him all in, running a subtle finger along his tight, virgin hole; Rick can’t believe he’s gonna be in there soon. His chest thrums a little, seeing as he’s never done this to anyone before and he wants this to be good for Negan. As good as it was for him.

He licks a tentative stripe along his opening, all the way up to his balls.

Negan curses with delight and Rick, with much more confidence, goes in again with another flat stripe and then another, until Negan’s wet enough so he can lap his hole free of tension and full of lax.

The man’s hips move so frantically, canting up and swishing wildly, that Rick has to pin him down with a strong arm, his tongue never relenting.

“ _God_ , now I know why you were such a fucking slut for this shit,” He gasps, hand reaching down to grip fiercely onto chestnut colored curls, “Feels so fucking good, baby-  _Mmm, fuck!_ \- Fuck me with your filthy fucking tongue.”

Rick complies, thrusting his stiff tongue into his hole, feeling the plush warmth surround his mouth. He imagines that tight, warm softness around his cock, and the thought alone makes his fervor intensify, tongue darting in and out, making his jaw ache so sweetly while Negan keens and moans in ways Rick never imagined he could.

“You want my fingers, babe?” Rick asks, briefly dipping his head up for air before he dives right back in, awaiting Negan’s reply.

Negan lets out a long moan that stretches his words out like salt water taffy,  _"Fuuck yesss, baabyy."_

Rick dips his head up again, teasing, “Yeah? Say please,” He goes back in yet again, this time with a smirk. 

Negan laughs, still retaining it’s pride despite how strung out and broke it sounds, “Fuck you, Rick.”

Rick laughs too, but he stands his word, moving his mouth away to rest teasingly in the crease of his inner thigh, rubbing his thumb firmly against the wet ring of muscle, looking up at Negan with a brow raised in challenge.

Negan groans desperately, lips pressed tight together as if to keep in the words that fall out anyways, “ _Please_ \- you win, you fucking prick-  _please!”_

Rick huffs a proud laugh, “Was that so hard?”

Negan doesn’t bother to respond, because Rick’s mouth resumes, this time with a probing finger rubbing him deeply, filling him in a way that feels much better than when he would do it himself.

He feels a bit apprehensive, however, because it is only one finger, and he already feels fairly stuffed- imagine what Rick’s fucking dick would feel like?

With time, that thought becomes less intimidating and more enticing once Rick finds his spot, stroking it time and time again, turning Negan’s muscles to jelly and striking him suddenly with euphoria each and every time.

He adds another finger when Negan asks, this time using lube and letting him adjust to the new stretch- Negan finds he kind of likes the sensation, asking for a third once he’s gotten used to just the two.

“Fuck me already,” Negan says when he feels well prepared, urgent and impatient and bordering on a whine just thinking about Rick's cock filling him up so fucking good.

Rick, harder than fucking steel and dazed with arousal, doesn’t bother to argue, instead reaching frantically over Negan’s head for a condom in one of the nightstand drawers.

Negan stops him with a hand wrapped around his forearm, making the boy look down at him in question. “Wanna fuckin' feel your cock.”

Rick nods, mouth slightly agape, pupils blown impossibly wide and dark. Baby blue turned to navy blue.

Negan takes the lube resting near his hip, lathering a generous amount onto Rick’s cock, making the boy moan deeply at the slick slide.

After he’s rubbed some on his hole, he lines himself up with Rick’s stiff length, slowly taking him in.

Rick chokes on a sigh when the head is in. It feels so good it almost hurts and he tries with everything he has to go in slow and steady and let Negan get comfortable with the sensation.

When he’s all the way in, surrounded by Negan’s tight and searing heat, he leans forward into the man’s shoulder, biting down into the flesh softly as his face scrunches up with pleasure, a wrecked moan running from his lips into Negan's skin as he feels his eager heart thumping against his own chest.

He moves when Negan tells him to, rocking his hips gently gently gently, until Negan’s begging, panting, moaning for more, grabbing Rick’s ass and pushing his thrusts in deeper.

Rick hitches Negan’s leg over his shoulder, fucking deeper into his tight ass.

“You feel so fucking good,” Rick moans loudly, hips snapping to and fro at an urgent pace, his balls slapping against Negan’s ass, “So tight.”

Negan rocks into his thrusts, arching his back and tilting his hips so Rick can fuck into his spot mercilessly, making the both of them curse and groan.

"Fuck me, Rick," Negan breathes, "Want you to cum inside me, fucking make my ass yours, baby, please." Rick replies with a near guttural groan, fucking into him impossibly harder, slapping their warm skin together. 

It doesn’t take long for Rick to cum when Negan’s spurring him on with his filthy ramblings and he's filling Negan up with his warm sticky load, messily fucking into him and wrapping a fist tightly around his cock, stroking him in time with his thrusts despite his own oversensitivity and making him follow quickly over the edge.

Rick collapses half onto the bed, half onto Negan’s chest, cum smeared between them because they’re both too tired to care.

Negan pulls him in closer, and Rick goes easily.

“Was that as good as you imagined?” Negan asks, voice lazy and breathless but still smug.

“Better,” is all Rick can muster, matched with a misty smile- the headiness of his orgasm mellowing him drowsy.

Negan smiles, wordlessly pressing a kiss to the top of his head as Rick gives in to the urge to doze off

-

Rick wakes up to Negan’s phone buzzing harshly against the hard surface of his nightstand and the man trying to subtly reach over his head to silence it.

“Sorry, baby,” Negan says when he sees Rick has woken, “It’s Gary; I guess he just realized I ditched.”

His phone goes off again, this time a text.

Negan reaches over again, huffing a single laugh through his nose when he reads the text.

“What does it say?” Rick asks, a little too curious to be casual, but Negan doesn't notice.

Negan reads the text as though he’s reading from a script, “You’re a bitch for flaking. Jam all day tomorrow or your ass is grass, motherfucker.”

Rick smiles forcibly, but can’t bring himself to laugh, not even to be polite.

The whole situation- waking up to Negan’s phone going off, Gary being the main culprit, the talk of jamming all day- it reminds him of so many years ago in that small (big now, if you compare it to Rick’s) apartment, of how things went rotten in such an awful way that Rick could’ve prevented had he had the balls to speak up.

A small fear strikes inside his gut, his mind warning him, taunting him:  _It could happen again... You don’t even know why it happened in the first place._

Negan notices every nuance, every shift. He retreats to his side of the bed, getting a better look at Rick.

“Hey?” he begins softly, “You alright?”

Rick turns to face him even further, meeting his eyes despite his weariness.

Surely Negan has had to have thought about their break up, surely he knows the reason he pulled away from Rick. He’s the only person Rick can get the answers from.

“After the Cavern,” he begins, voice feeble and unsure as he lay naked beside the man (Could Rick call him his boyfriend again?), “What did I… Did I do something? Say something?”

Negan plays dumb and Rick knows it: “What are you talking about?” There’s a hint of annoyance in his voice and it rubs Rick the wrong way.

“You know what I’m talking about, Negan,” He looks away, and Rick asks again, “What did I do wrong? Tell me what I did and I’ll fix it.”

Negan gives a single, bitter laugh, “You can’t fix it, Rick. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Well then what was it?” Rick can’t help the way his voice raises, rounding with exasperation.

Negan swallows hard, still looking straight up at the ceiling and letting out a long sigh.

“What happened?” Rick asks, softer.

It only seems to irritate Negan further, and he snaps, “Look can we just acknowledge the fact that I fucked up and leave it at that? I'm sorry, okay? I'm fucking sorry!”

“No!” Rick says, looking at Negan with furrowed disappointment, “No, we can't.”

Negan sighs, getting antsy and impatient like he always would 5 years ago when Rick would try time and time again to make amends.

“I thought you were cheating on me, Negan! I thought you didn't love me anymore.” Rick feels the way his skin gets too tight, how it reddens and trembles as he grows flustered, “You-you wouldn't  _talk_  to me and to this day I still don't know why. All I did was love you and support you and all I ever wanted in return was for you to do the same.”

He hates how his breath hitches in his chest, like his own air is trying to choke him, “What did I do to make you just… ignore me?”

Negan shuts his eyes, shaking his head as the wrinkle between his brows deepens.

“Nothing,” he answers, “you did nothing wrong.”

Rick wants to grab him by his shoulders and shake him, beg him to elaborate, beg him to look at Rick.

Before he can, Negan's on his feet, putting on his clothes and leaving Rick naked and vulnerable in more ways than one.

“Where are you going?” Rick asks urgently, and here he is again so desperate and yearning and left with no cooperation.

Negan laces up his boots.

“I’m going for a walk,” He says blankly, heading towards the door.

A wave of intolerance washes over Rick, panicky and thick. Negan has his hand on the knob when Rick says, hoping to scare the man into submission, “If you leave…” he takes in a shuddery breath, wondering if he’ll regret these words later, “Don't come back.”

There's a mile worth of silence between them, blocky and solid and keeping them apart for the moment that Negan hesitates.

Still he goes out the door without another word spoken or another glance given, and Rick wishes he wasn't dumb enough to think Negan would actually stay.

He stares at the door for a while after, feeling his skin begin to cool with his idleness, and feeling the sting of tears in his eyes.

When he tries to take in a deep breath, it chokes him again and the tears begin to fall and the sobs begin to sound.

-

Negan starts down the street of Rick's apartment building, walking too fast to appear casual, running his hand through his stringy hair too much for it to not be fidgety.

He would've taken his van, but he'd forgotten to grab his keys on his way out. He couldn't go back for them, not now. He knows he'll have to, though, and the thought shakes him. There’s no way in hell he didn’t just fuck shit up for good between he and Rick, but maybe it's better this way, he thinks. Maybe it was meant to be this way.

He hurries past the church, past the houses behind it, past the shops and the boutiques of downtown, past the record store and the 7/11.

There's a group of kids sitting on the sidewalk sipping slurpees and eyeing him like he's crazy and Negan figures it must look like he's running from something, but he's not running at all. He  _is_  trying to escape, but from what he doesn't know.

In the bustle of people, hopping their way from one bar to another or from one show to another, and sitting outside of busy restaurants and cafes, many call his name or wave or give a knowing smile- like they're his friends.

He knows they mean the warmest regards, or at least most of them do, but still it ticks under his skin, especially now.

Right now he wishes he had someplace to be alone; completely hidden and unseen.

He thinks back on Alpha and how with her he felt alone, but not lonely. It was comforting and ordinary, something he yearns for now.

But a part of him knows it wasn’t just her, but the drugs that helped him feel that way: The coddling comfort of heroin, the indifferent apathy and carelessness caused by cocaine, the familiarity of burning cigarettes.

He was able to dwindle with the help of those three things. It was a bad thing, self destructive and wounding to all, but he wants it now.

It was nice to feel like he could leave this world for a brief period, without actually dying. It was nice to feel high- It felt like being in love.

He pinches at the skin on the back of his wrists, thin and sheer and showing his veins, trying to mimic the prick of a needle but to no avail. Suddenly he feels too large for his skin, and he doesn’t know what to do about it.  

His phone vibrates in his pocket before he  _can_ do anything and he digs into his pocket for it, praying it's Rick calling him.

But it's not, and his body sinks (he really fucked it up this time. It's all his fault, it always will be, but can't somebody just forgive him?) as he stares down at the unknown number on the screen.

He answers it, figures he has nothing better to do.

“What?” He answers bitterly, awaiting some sort of answering machine he can get pissed off at and take out his aggression on.

Instead he gets a weary voice of an aging woman who used to sound so different when he'd hear her voice years and years ago. A voice that sang to him and encouraged him to follow his dreams up until his dreams became his own.

“Negan..?” She says, half a question and half saying it just to say it.

He stops in his tracks, like his bones have stiffened and locked, prohibiting movement, “Mom?”

She takes in a shaky breath, like it had been clogging her lungs, “It’s me,” she says with a sad, disbelieving laugh.

Negan listens as she begins to cry and a bitterness fills his soul. She doesn't deserve to cry, doesn't deserve the release.

Negan wants to cry. He wishes he was strong enough to cry and not hate himself for it.

“What the hell do you want?” He asks, “Why are you calling me now, after all these fucking years? How did you even get my number?” His voice is unsteady and rambling with tension, his hands can’t stop shaking.

“... It's not- it's not an easy thing to tell you, Negan..”

Negan scoffs, “What? You and pops need money for your crickety fucking bones to bathe in? You two wanna reacquaint yourselves with me cause I'm some pawn now, cuz I'm a huge fucking  _celebrity_.”

His words are full of overwrought malice, “Let me ask Warner to score us a fucking spot on Dr. Phil or maybe get Oprah back on the air so we can make a goddamn million dollar appearance. Wouldn't that be sweeter than all shit, huh? Mommy and Daddy and their ex drug addict rockstar son singing kumba-fucking-ya around a goddamn campfire, maybe add in a little fucking guitar solo for the hell of it-”

“ _Negan…_ ” his mother pleads, and his over compromising tongue goes still, “Your dad is dead.”

-

_You did it once, you can do it again... So what if this times it's for good? You’ll be fine, you’ll survive. So what if you never have sex with anyone ever again? Sex isn’t all that good anyways… Okay yeah it is, but you can survive without it. At least you'll have the memories to look back on and think about when you get lonely and-_

Rick lets out a sigh, closing his eyes.

No... it doesn’t feel right.

He knows this isn’t the end, he knows he was meant to be with Negan and that this can’t spoil them. Nothing can.

He just needs to know, just a simple fucking explanation- or a long one; he’s all ears no matter what.

Rick’s not gonna let one of the best things that ever happened to him slip right out of his hands just because of his pride, and his lack of confrontational confidence, and Negan’s stubbornness.

He’s gonna milk that damn answer out of Negan no matter what it takes, no matter the amount of pestering or coaxing or waiting- though he hopes it won’t take much.

They’re not gonna leave each other again. They don’t have to.

With that, Rick gets out of bed and puts on some warm clothes. Negan couldn’t have gone far, he thinks as he laces his shoes.

But first... he needs a cigarette or two, just to clear his mind.

He’s exiting the 7/11 around the block, a fresh pack of Marlboros in his hand and a cigarette hanging from his lips as he searches for his lighter, when he realizes he’s forgotten his phone.

He curses under his breath, making the stick fall to the ground as his nerves ramble his mind and he thinks:  _What if Negan’s calling me right now?_

Some kids sitting on the sidewalk sipping slurpees look at him like he’s crazy as he takes off running in the direction of his apartment, and reasonably so- sprinting like a madman for his phone… c’mon, man…

Rick’s half running half jogging up the multiple flights of stairs, lungs and chest stinging with how rapidly he’s taking in the stark, cold air around him, definitely not utilizing the breathing techniques his track coach had instilled in him during high school. Then again, he also wasn’t smoking way back when.

The toll the running takes on him physically dwindles his resolve, and he finds himself giving up, slumping to take a seat on the cold metal of the stairs. He only had half a flight left, but decided he was acting too ridiculous to follow through.

He takes out his pack, pulls out a fresh cigarette to put between his lips as he lights it.

It's been maybe two weeks since he had his last cigarette up on the roof top when it snowed for like two minutes. When he saw Negan’s scars.

It's not the end, he reminds himself as he takes another puff, it can’t be. Negan will come back, for his keys and his clothes and his guitar. They can talk then.

Rick’s too zoned out- weighing out options in his head, considering worst and best case scenarios- to hear the soft thud of footsteps descending towards him.

It’s only when Negan sits beside him that he turns to see it's the man of his thoughts. He thinks it should hurt seeing him, but it doesn’t. He only cried a little bit when he left. Not because he wouldn’t miss him or because it didn’t hurt to see Negan walk out that door, but because he didn’t mean his words, didn’t want to mean them. A part of him he couldn't explain knew they'd be okay.

He looks up at Negan and gives a sorrowful twitch of a smile. Negan returns the look, but Rick notes there’s something really not right about him, something more than the effects of just a shitty fight.

Negan sees and smells the cigarette but doesn’t do anything about it. Instead he asks, “Can I bum one off ya?” In a thick voice, like he’s been crying.

Rick eyes him pensively, brows furrowed as he shakes his head, “No.”

Negan scoffs but it humored- dimly, but still. Then he asks, “Why?”

“Because.”  _Because you haven’t smoked them in over a year and I don't want you to throw that away, because they’re bad for you, because they give you cancer, because they turn your lungs black and I don’t want any of that to happen to you._

Rick wonders if Negan hears the context behind the single word. If anything, he must understand it.

“You smoke reds?” Negan asks when he sees the pack, a hint of judgement in his still dim tone, “Fuck ton of nicotine in those bad boys. It’ll kill you quicker than death its damn self.”

“And you still want one?”

“You do, too.”

Rick bites the inside of his cheek, takes one last puff before he puts his cigarette out on the space of metal between his and Negan’s hips.

Negan follows the sight of the ash below Rick’s fingers, all the way up his arm and his shoulder, until his eyes meets the boy’s face.

Rick locks in with him.

“I didn’t mean what I said,” Rick says then, “but it hurt like hell to see you leave so fast.”

Negan has nothing to say to that, just gazes apologetically.

“I still need to know why, Negan,” he continues, “Things can’t go on between us unless I know why it happened the way it did- and things  _are_  going to go on between us; because I love you.” His last words are spoken nearly in hush, softened by honesty. “I love you more than you’ll ever know.”

Negan’s face shifts and his eyes get big and round, like tears have whipped their threatening sting. His eyebrows pinch together.

“I can’t explain it in words good enough so that you’ll understand,” Negan begins, “But… I think I can show you.”

Rick eyes him patiently, silently urging him to continue.

Negan swallows, “Come with me to Washington.”

“Washington?” Rick guffaws.

Negan nods, “Tacoma.”

“Why?”

“I need to go.”

“Why?” He repeats.

Having to make himself remember is a dull feeling and he doesn’t want to say it, but he does: blunt and colorless.

“My dad is dead.”

He doesn’t realize he’s crying until Rick bridges the gap between them, pulling Negan into a solid hug that squeezes his ribs hard enough to take his mind off his grief.

Alpha then his Dad, in a day.

Rick’s brows are furrowed so deeply it feels almost permanent as he looks blankly at the scenery behind Negan’s back: some barren trees, some dead grass, some faraway people, a dusky sky.

Negan hardly spoke of his parents, never even mentioned them in passing. Rick didn’t even know he lived in Tacoma up until just a minute ago.

Now he’s going back there with him.

And it's three days until Christmas.

He should probably call his Mom. It's been a while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading! I hope you enjoyed and as always, feedback and constructive criticism are more than welcome. :)  
> also im sorry everything i write is fucking painful as fuck lmao ive been writing angst since chapter 1 and now its all i know how to write


	17. The Eagles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> songs mentioned in this chapter include:  
> 'Jolene' by Dolly Parton

Rick calls his mom and she picks up before the first ring can even finish.

“My son!” She cries with joy, loud enough that it makes Rick flinch, loud enough that even Negan can hear it, “It’s about time! You better be callin’ to tell me you’re comin’ home for Christmas.”

Boy, does he have some news for her..

He shares a look with Negan- who’s busy packing- that tells the man he’ll be outside before he excuses himself from the cubicle of his apartment, stepping out into the chilling assault of the winter breeze.

“Hey mom,” Rick begins, “Uh... I’m going to Washington.”

There’s a beat of silence before a sharp wheeze sounds into Rick’s ear, evolving into a full-bodied laugh. Rick waits for it to wane off, for it to hit her, and when it does she goes stark serious in half a second.

“You’re not kiddin’?”

Rick purses his lips, bracing himself for whatever reaction may come when he says, “No, I'm not.”

He gets a generous helping of silence and then a deep sigh; that motherly sigh, “Ricky.. you better explain yourself right now.”

Rick paces down the stairs, quick and anxious, until he's on solid ground and Negan is four floors away.

“What if- umm…” Rick searches for his words. He can see his mother's stern face behind his eyelids- impatient and expecting- and it fills him with nerves, “What would you say if I told you Negan was back in my life?”

Rick's breath is suppressed for a beat before his mother continues.

“I'd say Tara already told me the day she came back from Austin.” His mother's voice is not amused.

 _Tara_ … _Of course_.

He never gets to break big news to people, huh? First his mother spoils his coming out to his father and now Tara spills his rightful beans to said mother.

At least he gets to tell her this.

“So you're… okay with it?”

“Well, Rick,” she begins carefully, “I wouldn't say okay; I saw how you were when you came back home. You wouldn't eat, wouldn't leave your room, wouldn't speak. I didn't know what I could do, and as your mother, I felt helpless. I’m sure it was an ugly, ugly feeling for the both of us and I don’t want either of us to go through that again.” Another sigh, “But… it's your life, in the end. I trust you to make the right decisions.”

“I'm better now, Mom. I'm good,” he means it, “If something like that were to happen again, I'd know how to handle it. I'd know how to talk to Negan, how to not lose myself. I'm good now.”

“I believe you, son,” she says smoothly, “Now explain why you're goin’ to Washington and not comin’ back home for Christmas. I know you like to break your mother's heart, but I'm gonna need a better reason than just that.”

“Negan's from Washington,” he begins slowly, “It's- It's where his parents are from.”

“He talks to them now?” His mother, bless her heart, actually sounds pleased at the possibility. Again- boy, does he have some news for her.

“Well, just his mom..kinda,” he says, “But he only just talked to her today for the first time in who knows how long.” He swallows, “She called to tell him that his Dad died.”

Rick feels his heart sink as he remembers: as he recalls Negan crying, as he thinks of how the man must feel, as he tries to even imagine the wrongs left unresolved between him and his parents.

He thinks about Negan up in his apartment, alone and packing for a plane ride back to his hometown- a place which he hasn't been back to in over ten years.

Rick's own eyes begin to well up, and his tears spill over before he can help it.

“My God..” she mumbles, and it doesn't sound like it was meant to be said aloud, “How long will you be gone?”

“I don't know.”

“Will you be back for New Years?”

“I'm not sure, Mom. I'm really sorry, I just- he needs me… and I don't want him going alone.”

“I understand,” she says, “but don't let him use this: his grief, as an excuse to mistreat you. I'm serious, Ricky.”

“I know, mom,” he says, “I won't.” He means it.

They hang up and Rick goes back up to his apartment.

Negan is sitting on the red vinyl couch with his head in his hands, statuesque in all his sorrow..

Rick goes to sit next to him, unsure of what to say or how much distance to keep- if he should even be sitting beside the man. It just felt like the right thing to do.

He reaches his hand out to lay across Negan's thigh, trying to let his message and his consolation seep through a thick layer of denim and flesh.

Negan looks up, first at Rick’s soft face, then at the hand on his thigh. Rick’s chest floods with relief when Negan puts his hand over his, giving his fingers a grateful squeeze.

And Negan’s looking at him, Rick notes. Sure, his skin is dull and sad and his eyes are puffy and red and smeared with black, but he’s not putting up a wall, not hiding his grief, and Rick thanks his lucky stars.

“You should go back home for Christmas,” Negan says softly, “I don’t wanna- It’s not fair for me to take that away from you and your family.”

“Don’t worry about that, baby. It’s alright. I can miss out on a night of binge drinking and trying to hold my tongue when my Aunt Karen wants to start talkin’ politics.” He adds, trying to keep things light as he feels he’s still treading on weary waters, “Besides, said you had things to show me, right?” He squeezes Negan’s hand, a silent plead.

Negan sighs deeply, raking his fingers through his stringy hair, “I don’t know anymore.”

“Don’t do this, Negan,” He says exasperatedly. Rick finds that now more than ever he’s not too proud to beg, “Please, baby.”

Negan looks pained, skin taut with conflict as he looks down at his lap, at his and Rick’s hands, “I don’t wanna go back,” he begins, “But I know I have to. It’s now or never.”

“I’ll be with you through it all,” Rick says, “I promise.” Negan looks over at him like he wants to believe Rick, wants to trust him.

He’s scared and Rick can see that. But he can also see that he’s trying.

Rick inches just a little closer and Negan settles a bit easier. When he reaches out to move away stray strands of dark hair from his face, tucking them behind the man’s ear, Negan breathes out a heavy sigh, coming at ease slowly, eyes fluttering.

Rick bores into them, waiting for the warm brown to return from behind his eyelids.

“I promise,” he says again, when they do return, “you can talk to me, you know. About anything.”

Negan nods after a moment, “I know.” He doesn't look away when he says, “but sometimes I don't want to. Even if I need to.”

 _But I’ll try_ goes unspoken.

Rick still feels it, grasps on tight to it.

-

Negan declines his Mother's offer of picking them up at the airport and just calls a damn uber instead.

Rick can't say he's not happy about that, because there's no doubt that the whole car ride would've been the most awkward thing he's ever encountered in his life. He has no idea how Negan's going to act around his mother. Shit, he has no fucking idea how Negan's mother is going to react to _him_. Does she even fucking know Negan was bringing him as a… partner?

He asks Negan- who's had his eyes closed and his head lying heavy against the glass window as scenery that he doesn't want to see passes them by- as much, to which he sits up a little straighter, eyes opening wide with nerves.

“Fuck… It never crossed my mind, no.”

Now Negan is strung tight with nerves, one more thing to worry about and bear on his shoulders.

He looks out the window now with open eyes, daring to take in his surroundings for just a second before he turns away, looking towards Rick instead.

“Fuck this place,” Negan says.

That’s when the uber driver,  who looks a lot like a young Joe Walsh, speaks up with a snort and hoot and a hick accent, “Hey! You said it, brother.”

He reaches out to turn up the radio and Jolene by Dolly Parton plays loud and almost as if on queue. The man snaps his fingers to the beat, unbothered.

Rick and Negan share a look of amused befuddlement- it tears them away from their worries and their fears, even if it's only for a moment.

“You from here?” The Joe Walsh lookalike asks Negan, stealing a glance at him and then Rick in the rear view mirror, “No shit, I think I seen you somewhere.”

“Nah,” Negan says, “Never been here my whole life.” As he speaks, he looks out the window, at everything he's known and hated, and also things and places he’s loved that have know grown to be nothing special. He sees houses where his friends used to live but don’t anymore, restaurants he used to eat at that are out of business now, graffitied art that used to be on the walls now covered as a product of gentrification, old buildings knocked down in piles of rubble.

Rick gives him a pointed look, questioning his answer with concern all over his pretty face.

Negan resents himself for putting lines in that face, right between the brow where it squiggles up with worry all the time because of him. He resents himself for making those blue eyes so challenged, for clouding them with weary edges and uncertainty.

They pass by the cemetery he's unsure if Lucille was buried at or not.

He gives Rick a look that begs the boy to excuse him and his odd behavior, begs him to understand that he can't explain.

“Well,” Joe Walsh concludes, “love it or hate it, it's all the same damn place. You're always in the same God damn place.”

-

Rick thinks Negan's mom looks exactly like him: long and thin with great bone structure and hazel eyes and dark hair.

Unlike Negan, she is old and distressed, gray and weary, but still beautiful.

When she opens the door for him and Negan, she bursts into tears at the sight of her son, taking him into a spontaneous embrace.

Negan lets her, but he looks ever placid- face stone set and blank, arms not bothering to reciprocate as he just stands there, unsure and in shock.

Rick can sense tension in his stiff posture, bitter and resentful.

She doesn't acknowledge Rick until they're inside the house, standing in the middle of a long corridor with their suitcases at their sides.

She wipes her crepey eyes free of tears, smudging her makeup a bit, while she offers a polite smile in Rick's direction.

“Negan, who's this handsome thing? You didn't tell me you'd be bringing anyone.”

“This is Rick,” he says, completely withdrawn in his tone and his presence, like he's gone away to be numb and untouched, leaving behind a bland figure to take his place, “He's my boyfriend.”

Rick finds himself blushing; one, because this is a goddamn awkward situation, being under the microscope of Negan's mother's eyes, invading the privacy and situation between them and two, because Negan just called Rick his boyfriend. He didn't know they were back on that level, yet.

But maybe Negan's just calling him that out of lack of a better word.

His mother looks startled, eyes widened and polite smile stretched uncomfortably, “Boyfriend?”

Negan is silent so Rick speaks on his behalf.

“Yes,” he says, timid smile on his lips, “Boyfriend.”

He sneaks a glance at Negan, who's staring straight ahead ad past his mother, jaw clenched, eyes absent.

It makes him shrink.

He wants nothing more than to wrap Negan in his arms and tell him it's okay. But he doesn't know shit about anything that's happening here; Lord does he wish he did, so he wouldn't feel so fucking out of place.

“Oh,” his mom continues, voice light and stark as her eyes take in Rick a little differently.

Rick can’t read her face.

She looks over at Negan, who finally looks up. “I was expecting a girl,” she says with a conversational laugh, tight and unsure.

Rick cringes and Negan finally resurfaces, saying, “Yeah well we all get shit we don't expect a lot of the fucking time, now don't we? Didn't expect to be back in this fuckhouse, didn't expect to become a fucking junkie, didn't expect you to call me up and tell me Dad was fucking dead... Didn't expect fuck all of this.”

The woman purses her lips at the mention of Negan's dead father, pain striking her face.

“I won’t have any of that,” she states through a tight, mournful mouth, “You won’t talk about your Dad like that.”

Negan scoffs indignantly, “Yeah, sure go ahead- Boss me around and be my fucking Mom for once after all these years. Better late than fucking never.” With that and nothing more, Negan walks away, taking off around a corner without a word to spare.

His mother sighs deeply, looking down at the floor for a second, running a hand through her hair and then looking up at Rick who's unsure of what to say or do- if he should follow Negan or stay put or excuse himself. He’s not sure what his other options are.

“I didn't mean it like that,” she says to Rick, quietly, sounding so exhausted, “About expecting a girl. I just thought there was a girl; shaved head, thin face, real skinny. I guess I was wrong. I just, I can't- it's… I haven't seen him in so long. I just can't find the right words to say.. About anything.”

Rick looks in the direction Negan went off to, “I think he knows that, knows what you meant… I hope he does.” He looks up at her, “Make sure he does.”

-

Negan goes off into the living room, just to get some space. It's almost instinct the way he leaves, and because of that he expects everything to be the same as it was years ago, but everything's different. From the paint on the walls to the carpeting on the floor and the furniture and the TV and most of the pictures.

The pictures.

He sees the Saviors album covers framed onto the wall that he wasn't expecting, sees magazine covers with his and Alpha's face framed as well, sees himself, sees Lucille. There's still photos sitting around the room that he remembers being there when he was a teenager.

A picture of him and Lucille at graduation catches his eye, and he picks it up off the coffee table. It’s weird looking at such an old picture. Especially when a person in the photo is now dead and has been for so long.

Staring down at Lucille, so smiley and made up and so punk rock and happy to be out of high school, wrapped around his arm and cloaked in her graduation gown, it almost feels like she’s still alive. Like he’ll turn around and she’ll be there and he’ll be freshly eighteen again and both of his parents will be alive and he won’t be jaded anymore. He’ll just be pure again.

Negan feels someone’s presence just a step beside him, so he looks over his shoulder and sees Rick.

“Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,” Negan says, and though his teasing lacks its usual color, it reigns true.

He feels terrible knowing how confused Rick must feel, how awkward and out of place. He feels selfish knowing how much he needs Rick here with him, how desperate he is for the comfort and normalcy he provides.

He feels grateful that despite it all, Rick is still here.

The boy tilts his head to get a look at what has Negan so enthralled.

“Is that her?” he asks, voice gentle and tentative, but still so resonating. It moves in Negan, brings him back to the life he’s in now.

Negan swallows, “Yeah,” he answers, sparing Rick a glance before he looks back down at the photo, “I almost forgot what she looked like.”

Rick watches Negan’s face, watches his hands as he grips the photo so hard his knuckles flush white. He doesn’t think Negan knows he’s holding it that tight, or that his jaw is clenched so strongly.

Something floods Rick’s chest, something like pain- or more like sympathy. He moves in closer to Negan, resting his head against Negan’s shoulder: a silent gesture.

He studies the photo further, beyond Lucille and all her beauty, and onto the boy beside her, who seems to tower over her form. The way Negan would talk about Lucille- though he rarely talked about Lucille- always made her seem so tall, so large, such a being. She barely reaches Negan’s chest, head lying halfway between his elbow and his shoulder- short and stout.

And Negan's tall and scrawny like a string bean with legs, hair overgrown and messy, blown into his face just a little. He’s smiling so wide and he looks so young because he was so young.

Rick thinks back to the time when he’d just met Negan, that night when he had first told Rick about Lucille.

 _You’re so young,_ he kept repeating, almost like he was pleading at him to not forget it- to not lose it, and to reserve it. He wonders if Negan saw in Rick what Rick is seeing now in this picture of Negan.

Rick wonders if he still has it.

“You look cute,” Rick says, because he does and because he hopes to lighten the mood.

Negan huffs a sheepish laugh through his nose, voice bashfully amused as he mumbles, “Shut up.”

Rick chuckles, “What? You do.” He points at his form in the picture, “Look at your hair- and your smile! Aw, you look so sweet.” Now he’s just teasing him, even though he really does mean it.

He does it to see the line of Negan’s lips curve further and further, until he sees pearly white teeth baring in behalf of a deep smile, until he sees crinkles beside glittering hazel eyes.

“You’re such a fuckin’ dick,” Negan says through the filter of his sweet as sap grin, making his words tender and plush.

Rick laughs, turning slightly so his forehead presses lovingly into the firmness of Negan. “You got anymore pictures of you? Preferably baby pictures?”

Negan tosses the banter right back, “Nothing that can beat that picture of you dressed as Woody from Toy Story.”

“How many times do I have to tell you: I was _four years old_.”

Negan laughs and Rick mentally curses his mom for ever thinking that showing Negan that photo years ago was a good idea.

“There’s some baby pictures in that case by the window.”

The two of them go silent at the sound of Negan's mother’s voice, their smiles fading- Rick’s due to surprise and Negan’s due to something with much more scorn.

Negan’s mother notices and visibly sinks, looking away wearily, her polite smile dwindling.

“Thank you… um?”

“You can call me Sonny, sweetheart,” she says, reviving her weak smile. She turns to Negan and says, “Negan, why don’t you show Rick upstairs when you’re finished here?”

“Get settled,” she adds, reminding Negan this is his home and looking like she’s not above begging as she speaks to her dense son.

“Alright,” Negan says tersely, face setting back into stone.

She senses her son’s dire wish for her to leave and she grants it.

Sonny, Rick thinks. That’s a pretty name.

He feels bad for Sonny. He wonders why Negan resents her so deeply.

“Go easy on her,” Rick says as Negan sets the photo down, grabbing his suitcase and his guitar case off of the ground, “She’s trying, you can tell.”

“Yeah,” Negan says, “Trying real hard to make me forget her and my Dad’s goddamn mistakes.

Like mother like son, Negan thinks.

Rick sighs, watching Negan lead the way upstairs.

He grabs the case of photos by the window before he follows his lead.

-

Negan has to admit he’s spent a fair amount of time missing his childhood bedroom. He thinks every kid's bedroom is a special fucking place: it's a temple of growth and angst and thought. Its personal.

Negan figured his parents had turned his room into a gym or used it for storage. He’s more than surprised to find his room looks exactly as he had remembered it. In fact, it doesn’t look a hair out of place.

It matches all of his dreams and memories, every single inch of it.

He looks at the tops of his dresser and his nightstand. Not a speck of dust.

His mother must’ve cleaned it, must’ve been cleaning it.

The thought moves something in his gut.

_Why didn’t they seek him out sooner? Why didn’t he seek them out sooner?_

Shoving those thoughts away, he takes in his surroundings.

He looks inside his drawers and sees all his old clothes still in there. He looks on the floor and sees a vague smudge of red on the beige carpet- an old stain from Lucille’s neon lipstick that holds so many memories.

The walls are covered in layers and layers of posters and drawings and plain scribbles he’d done onto bare wall with Lucille just to piss of his parents when he was in his rebellious era.

Fuck, he never really grew out of his rebellious era.

He sets his things down and takes a seat on his squeaky bed- the mattress stiff and overly firm.

Rick catches up to him and sits beside him, placing the photo album case bulky between them.

“Cool room,” Rick says, taking in the surroundings just as Negan had been.

Negan smiles, looking at Rick while the boy looks around.

“If you need anymore Nirvana t-shirts that go down to your knees and have fucking gaping holes in them,” Negan begins, pointing over to his dresser, “They’re right in there.”

Rick huffs a laugh, “I think one’s enough for now, but I’ll keep that in mind.” Then he grabs the photo case, “You still wanna look through these?”

“And say goodbye to my last shred of pride? Sure, why not?”

-

Rick and Negan strike gold; finding baby pictures and more.

They find pieces of Negan’s high school artwork which is really all just Nirvana fanart.

“Lucille and I took art our last year in high school instead of P.E. and she dared me to somehow make every art project of mine center around Kurt Cobain and I dared her to subliminally include a dick into every one of hers,” Negan explains as Rick examines a horrific pointillism study of Kurt Cobain.

“The dots are so spaced out,” Rick says, laughing and teasing, “It looks nothing like him.. looks like Thom Yorke, if he were a humanoid."

Negan lets out a shrill wheeze then goes on to say, “Why do you think I got a thirty-fucking-five on that shit… People don’t know good art when it's dick is swinging right in their fucking face.”

Rick rolls his eyes, smiling.

Just then, a knock sounds at the door and it's opening seconds later.

Negan's mom shows her face, and she's smiling at the scene.

Negan's own smile fades again.

“Negan, can I talk to you?” She asks timidly.

The man scoffs, being ever resistant, “What, am I in trouble?”

Rick shoves his shoulder lightly, his touch transferring a message, and Negan sighs.

“Fine,” he mutters, getting up off the bed. “I'll be right back,” he says to Rick before he joins his mother in the hall.

Facing her, she takes in his face for the second time, eyes lingering and getting all watery.

“What did you want?” Negan asks.

She snaps out of it, her glassy eyes going dull and her skin weary once again.

“I know it's late, but dinners in the oven. I figured you two would be hungry.. It’ll be done in maybe ten minutes,” she informs, and Negan knows what she's going to say next just as he had all those years ago as a teen, awaiting the house to himself, “I'm going off to work now.”

Negan's anger slips under the hand of curiousity as he asks, “You still have the bakery?”

His mother notes the change in his tone, be it brief, and thanks the world for it.

“Yes,” she says with a relieved smile, “Of course. Who else is gonna bake pastries and watch kids, in that order?”

Negan tries for a smile, but falls short.

“What time are you gonna be back?” He asks.

She blinks, then sighs, “I’m not sure. Lately I've been spending all my time over there. Hurts to be in this house.”

“Are you trying to make me feel sorry for you?” Negan muses, his putridness arising once again, burning as it comes up his throat like some emotional acid reflux. “Because it's gonna take a shit ton more than that.”

“Just trying to be honest,” she says weakly, adding, once things become rigid, “Well… don't let the lasagna burn.”

-

When Negan steps out, Rick continues looking through the case of photos, trying to find a picture that could put his horrendous Woody photo to shame.

Unfortunately, Negan’s parents never seemed to catch the embarrassing moments of their son’s childhood- just the really fucking cute ones. Rick’s not about to complain, however.

At the very bottom of the case, Rick finds a thick album with a white plastic cover, speckled with pale pink hearts. Written on it in black sharpie, Rick reads: _O’ Jer, My Love._

Curious, he opens it.

The first thing he sees is picture of a young and shirtless man with honey blond hair and tanned skin, wearing a pair of red running shorts and a grin so blinding as he carries a smiling baby Negan on his shoulders.

Then another of the two standing side by side against a house that doesn’t look too far off from the one Rick’s in now, the older man holding a baseball in gloved hand. Negan is maybe a year or so older than he was in the last picture and the blond man towers over him in height, gangly and grown and grinning.

After the many repeated appearances with Negan, Rick suspects the blond man to be Negan’s father, and as he flips on, seeing wedding photos and anniversary photos and photos from baby showers and photos taken just out of the need to take photos of a person you're enamored with, Rick knows the blond man- Jerry, he notes- must be Sonny’s late husband.

His heart breaks for both Negan and his mother.

For Negan because the paternal love that was so clearly and brightly there had left him, turned on him, for reasons unknown to Rick, and now one of the people who had once loved him so truly is dead and gone, and he’ll never get a chance to work things out and seek closure.

For his mother because he can tell by the old photos and the pain on her face that she carries now that she was undoubtedly and passionately in love with her husband- and Rick knows what love feels like, how powerful it is, how amazing.

He had lost Negan once, had worried the man was dead for years; however, that was just a possibility, a worse case scenario- and even then, sometimes he felt like he’d be better off dead as well if Negan wasn’t on this earth with him anymore. It was an awful, dark feeling that took too much effort to cloud and stifle.

Rick has no idea what he would’ve done with himself had Negan actually died, and Negan’s mother is now living through one of Rick’s most dreaded fears.

Once Rick gets to the end of the album, he sees a folded piece of paper tucked away in the crook of the spine. He pulls it out and unfolds it, face scrunching up in confusion when he sees what it is.

It’s a funeral program for Negan’s dad, and maybe that wouldn’t have been so odd if the printed date of his death hadn’t been almost a year ago.

 _Fuck,_ he thinks, _does Negan know about this?_

Rick hopes that he does and that it’s only Rick who hasn’t received the memo.

He wonders if he should bring it up, if should just let it go and tuck the case of photos away back to where they belong and just pray Negan knows, or keep quiet when he finds out.

Before Rick can come to an ultimatum, the older man returns through the door and Rick looks up at him, looking like a deer in headlights who’s seen some gnarly shit.

Negan looks like he was just about to say something, but drops it to instead address Rick’s state. “What’s wrong, baby?” He asks, and his tone is so genuinely concerned that Rick knows he can’t lie to him.

Still Rick can’t find the right words to spit out, “I- I’m just, I just saw this thing,” he lifts the hand clutching the program weakly, “and… when’s the funeral, Negan? Do you know?”

Negan looks so confused. “I don’t know, maybe in a few days. I’ll have to ask my mom.” He eyes the paper in Rick’s hand, “What the hell is that?”

Rick swallows, looking up at Negan with apologetic eyes, “It’s a funeral program. For your Dad. It says he died a year ago tomorrow.”

Negan takes it from his hand, “No fucking way,” he mutters, only to read the evidence right underneath his nose. When he’s found enough, he looks up at nothing, his jaw clenched angrily as he spits out, “Of _fucking_ course- Of _fucking_ course she’d fucking lie to me!” Negan’s fuming, voice bordering on a roar and face completely cherry red. Rick watches with a worried fear.

“She probably did this shit on fucking purpose! That’s why she wanted us to go through the fucking baby pictures- she’s too much of a fucking coward to tell me her goddamn self!”

In an instant, the anger deflates from Negan’s body, making his tense shoulders slump, and his eyes sink like a faulty ship.

“Why didn’t she call me sooner?” He asks brokenly, to no one in particular, “Before he died. Why didn’t they care enough to call me sooner? To try and find me? They knew I wasn’t good, they had to have known. They have fucking pictures of me on the cover of Rolling Stone framed in the living room- they had to have known.” Negan’s voice breaks off and Rick feels his heart shatter as he watches Negan’s face contort with the will to cry.

He grabs him by the hips, bridging the gap between them and hugging him in close, burrowing his face in the man’s ribs as he sits on the edge of Negan's bed.

“I don’t know, baby, I don’t know,” he says, as if it’s of any help, “I’m so sorry.”

Negan buries his fingers in Rick’s hair, holding on tight and trying not to drift away as he leans down to press his lips to the boy’s head.

He lingers there for a while, wetting Rick’s curls with his tears and hoping to let the comfort Rick emits seep into every crevice of his soul.

“I’m so sorry,” Rick repeats.

“I know you are,” Negan says gently, so Rick can stop feeling like he has to keep on saying that.

“What am I even fucking doing here?” Negan asks after a moment, after a heavy sigh clears his lungs of hitching sobs, “I have no fucking reason to fucking be here anymore. I never fucking did.”

Rick pulls away, but leaves his hands to loiter on the man’s hips.

“Your mom needs you, Negan.”

“Yeah, well I needed her and I needed my Dad and when I asked for them and their support they gave me jack shit.”

Rick has no idea what he’s talking about, but doesn’t dwell on it. Maybe he will sometime else, when Negan is not as shook up as he is now.

“Helping her could help you, too,” Rick says, “Talk to her.”

Negan looks down into Rick’s sweet and pleading blue eyes. In retrospect, he thinks if there was ever anyone who cared so much about his well being in the past few years that wasn’t Beth, it would have to be Rick.

His sweet Rick who never wanted anything for him but the best, never did anything but love Negan like he was perfect, and support his dreams like Rick was the very spine in Negan’s fantasy’s body.

“I’ll try,” he says, “Let’s just hope she doesn’t fucking keep shit from me,” he adds, petulantly.

Before either of them can get another word in, a pungent scent catches Negan’s noise and he starts sniffing like a bloodhound, brows furrowed with the weight of a mystery before he remembers.

“ _SHIT, THE LASAGNA!”_

Rick watches as Negan jets out of the room, listens as he scrambles down the stairs.

When he hears the clattering of pans and a fire alarm going off, he decides to go after the man.

-

Once they figure out how to turn off the fire alarm, Rick and Negan eat some Grade C lasagna straight from the pan, disregarding the kitchen table and instead choosing to sit next to each other on the counter beside the kitchen sink, the lasagna residing between them.

Yeah it’s a little burnt on the top _and_ on the bottom, and the middle is a little on the dry side, but they’re both hungry enough to look past that.

Even after they’ve finished eating, they stay seated on the counter, talking and joking and laughing about whatever comes to mind, whatever flows, stealing flirty touches and kisses into the wee hours of the morning.

It feels like they’re back in their old apartment era with all the late hours and the rambling and that feeling of being home flooding their chests and their bellies with warmth like it's a gracious, gracious wine.

But Rick’s in a house he’s never been in before, in a part of the U.S. he’s never seen before and he knows it’s not his location that makes him feel at home, but Negan.

It’s nearly two in the morning when Rick finally notices the absence of Negan’s mom.

“Where's your mom?” He asks.

The mention of the woman only puts a slight damper on his mood this time around, and he answers, “She's at work.”

“At this time? Where does she work?”

“She owns her own business. It's like this bakery with a daycare upstairs. A daykery. She works long nights, does all the prep and baking on her own.”

Rick can't help the way his eyes light up, “Really?? That's so cool.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

The boy takes note of the edge in Negan's eyes.

“Did it bother you?” Rick asks, softer now, “Her always being at work?”

Negan shrugs, “Not really. My dad was always home by the time she left, and when I got older I was always doing something. Baseball practice, baseball games. Then Lucille was always around, and then music.”

Rick nods.

“You?” Negan asks, “Did you mind your parents always working?”

“Yeah,” Rick says quietly, “Made me feel unimportant for a little while. Abby would always tell me they worked so much because they loved me and wanted to be able to support me better. I understood that, but it didn't do anything about the loneliness.” He looks up at Negan who's looking back at him attentively, “My mom tries to make up for that now, but I don't want her to feel like she has to. I'm glad I was raised how I was, by Abby and with Rosita. Everything fell into place.”

A thick, thoughtful silence falls between them and they let it soak into their skin and soothe them.

Then Rick remembers, and puts their tranquility at risk.

“Earlier, you said when you needed your parents to be there for you, they weren't. What were you talking about?”

Negan sighs, looking down at his swinging feet, then forward at the kitchen all around him.

“I know it's gonna sound stupid as shit when I say it out loud, but, it just… I think it ruined me, being so young and having them do what they did.”

“What did they do?”

“Lucille died, and I had.. an epiphany, really. I realized I didn't fucking want to play baseball, didn't want to go to college. It wasn't for me, and I just kept thinking if I die young like Lucille, I don't wanna die doing shit I don't wanna do.”

“When I told my parents this, told them I wanted to be a musician; they weren't very happy. Said some… mean things. That I'd never make it, that I'd end up a bum, a failure, that I wasn't good enough to make a life out of music. They tried to scare me out of it by telling me if I dropped out, they would never speak to me again, but it didn't work and I stopped talking to them and I dropped out of college and left to Austin.” Negan can't meet Rick's eyes, doesn't want him to see the petty sadness he harbors, “I know it doesn't sound like much, but I was barely eighteen and my parents had always supported me through everything I wanted to do. Or so it fucking seemed- I never realized they only supported me through the shit _they_ wanted me to do. I only went through with it to make them happy and because I didn't realize it was _my_ future.. _my_ life.”

Rick places a hand on Negan's thigh, his comfort seeping through like it does.

“After the Cavern, when The Saviors started working with Gary, it finally hit me that I finally had my chance to prove them wrong and I didn't want to fuck it up. So I spent all my time there, trying too hard to make a good album, forcing myself to forget about you so I wouldn't have any distractions. I didn't want to fuck it up,” he repeats finally.

“Why didn't you just tell me that?” Rick says, “I would've understood.”

“Would you have?” Negan asks, raising a deeper question, “No matter what, it was only a matter of time. We had to go our own ways. Especially you.”

Rick thinks about that and finds Negan's right.

“When you asked me what was wrong, it brought up too much shit I hadn't dealt with or even thought about in years. And every time you kept on asking, it rubbed me the wrong way. It hurt. Brought up too many fucking memories.”

Rick dwells on the possibilities of what could've been had they stayed together- whether Negan had told him what he knows now, or not. He would've never learned what he has now, maybe would've never met Tara and Noah, or gotten close to Rosita again, or wrote a film with Glenn or reconciled and come to a mutual ground of understanding with his own parents.

Then he laughs (because it’s funny now) as he admits, “I used to think maybe you were cheatin’ on me with Gary or somethin’.”

Negan honks out a surprised laugh, “What the fuck?”

“I don’t know,” Rick chuckles, answering the unsaid question and flushing with embarrassment, “I had too much thinkin’ time: Gary’s good looking… He plays guitar, he sings. Sounds like your type, kinda.”

“Oh, so you think Gary’s good looking?” Negan teases, tongue between his teeth.

Rick rolls his eyes fondly, going along with Negan’s game as he says, “Yeah and I think he’s a good guitar player, too.”

Negan moves in close, his warm colored eyes full of allure and oh so playful.

“Better than me?”

“Never better than you,” Rick answers with a grin, mirroring Negan and moving in close, planting a quick, teasing peck on his lips before he pulls right back.

Negan chases his lips as he moans, “ _Mmm_ , say that again.”

“Gary’s a better guitar player than you.”

“Baby,” Negan paints a frown on his face, feigning offence, “that hurts.”

Rick smirks, taking a moment to fully admire the man’s sweet hazel eyes and his gorgeous, smokey face once again. Rick finds his gaze falling to his lips and so does Negan, face amused.

A hint of something falls into the air at that moment, and as if reading Rick’s mind, Negan says, “You know… we got the house to ourselves-”

Rick doesn’t waste a minute letting him finish that sentence, instead saying, “What the hell are we waiting for then?” and hopping off the counter, pulling Negan along with him as they make their way upstairs.

-

Later in the night- or really, very early in the morning- Negan stays up, head resting against Rick's firm pecs, and eyes set on the cycles of the ceiling fan while Rick snores softly through his orgasm fueled slumber, and he thinks.

He thinks back on the words of Joe Walsh, their uber driver. 

Negan's in the same damn place.

But maybe he could move right along, and catch up with the boy who plays pillow beneath him. 

He could try. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all for reading!! I hope you enjoyed and as always, feedback and constructive criticism are more than welcome :) <3333


	18. Don't Let Me Down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs in this chapter include:  
> 'Father and Son' by Cat Stevens  
> 'Don't Let Me Down' by The Beatles (Paolo Nutini does a real good version of this song too..... just an fyi)

“Hey, Negan!! Wake up, it's raining!”

Rick nearly yells these words like the water from the sky is a miracle product of God's grace, and he sits up in bed, gawking out the window.

“Oh wait,” he adds a second later, a tad disappointed, “We’re not in Texas...”

Negan takes in a sharp, waking breath, rolling further into Rick.

Now, in the grayish morning hours, he feels the weight of his restlessness and running thoughts that had kept him up last night, and all he wants to do is sleep.

He doesn’t say anything to Rick’s words, but somehow the boy still feels acknowledged.

Rick watches the rain fall from the view of the window, hears the sound of it falling down onto the house, feels the kind weight of Negan sleeping on him and the breeze of the man’s breath on his skin.

 _It is so crazy_ , he thinks as he begins running a hand through Negan’s dark, greasy hair, _Life is so crazy._

_And wild._

_And twisting._

He’s not sure if Negan is still awake, but he voices his thoughts regardless- in so many words- saying, “Whenever I’m with you, my life moves faster.”

After a long beat of silence, he concludes the man must really be asleep, and that’s okay.

But then a gritty voice, muffled by Rick’s skin, asks, “Is that good?”

“Yeah,” Rick whispers, smiling down at the dark head of hair, “It’s good.”

And it is.

It’s good when it’s going really slow, too. Or just the right shade of steady.

Negan rolls back into his side of the bed, looking over at Rick, who’s looking right back at him, curiously.

Rick notes how his eyes are puffy, swollen with sleep- or really the lack of it- and sincerity, his winter flushed cheeks just the same.

“Baby,” he begins, a rasp, “I want you to know, walking out that door like I did- that was the stupidest thing I've ever fucking done. Please know that wasn't me. Something stupid fucking came over me… blinded me.”

Rick listens on.

“Walking down the streets of Austin with your cum between my thighs and my asscheeks raw from the beard burn you gave me…Thought I'd fucked shit up between us forever.. that you'd never want to see me again.”

Rick moves in closer, until he can get a hand on the warmth of Negan’s chest, pecking his lips sweet and quick.

Then he sighs, almost as if in relief, “That _was_ you.. and I get it. I shouldn't have given you that ultimatum, but I was- I was just so desperate for an answer.”

“You deserved an answer.”

“I did,” Rick nods, “And I got it.” He pulls Negan into his chest and the man goes easily, “Now get some sleep. You look like you need some.”

Negan inhales the scent of the boy beneath his nose, “Damn right I do.”

-

Later on, when the rain has calmed to a stagnant drizzle and Rick and Negan have gotten ready for their day ahead, Negan asks:

“What do you want for breakfast?”

“I don't know,” Rick answers, watching as Negan looks into a barren fridge, “What do you want?”

Rick should've expected the wolffish once over he receives, and the way Negan faintly licks his lips.

“You're lookin’ mighty tasty, if I do say so my fuckin’ self. Especially in my damn shirt.”

Rick rolls his eyes, but he can't help the flush on his cheeks, “I’m talkin’ real food, Negan.”

Before the man can make another lewd remark, Rick adds, with a hint of reluctance, “Why don't we go to your mom’s bakery?”

Negan shuts the fridge, “I’d rather go to a goddamn McDonald's… that's on fire… in the middle of hell, with worms and shit all around it, covered in warm feces.”

“Don't be so stubborn, Negan.”

“Stubborn?” Negan scoffs, “She fucking lied to me about when my Dad died, I'm not being _stubborn._ ”

“I'm sure she has her reasons,” Rick says, “They don't excuse what she did, but still.”

Negan huffs and his face turns to stone again.

“Her husband died a year ago today. It's Christmas Eve, for Christ's sake. Don't you feel just a little bit bad for her?”

“... She could've called me then.. not now.”

Just when Rick is about to say something, Negan's walking away.

Rick watches him, saying with a deflating sigh, “Where are you going?”

“Follow me,” is all Negan says as he grabs a pair of keys off a hook near a door.

Rick follows, and they go outside that door, which leads them to the garage.  

In there, Rick sees a Mercedes, sleek and black despite its older model.

Negan circles the car, a hand on the smoothness of the paint, trailing along and following as he goes round and round.

“My Dad was a dentist,” Negan says as he comes to a stop near the hood of the car.

Rick is still standing near the door that goes into the house.

“Free check ups and shit, black Mercedes, tutors when I needed them, baseball mentors, cool toys- anything I wanted.” Negan huffs a mirthless laugh, “I was a spoiled fucking brat, an only child.”

Rick is an only child, too, but it never felt like it. Rosita was and still is like his little sister, and he was never dotingly spoiled- at least not with material things.

Negan opens the door to the car, gestures for Rick to come over and do the same on his side.

He does, and together they sit inside.

Negan starts up the car, and a CD starts playing.

They both recognize it, gravely so:

Cat Stevens’ _Tea for The Tillerman._

The song playing is _Father and Son_ and Negan has spent most of the years since he was eighteen and on his own dwelling on this song, thinking about it, relating to it, wondering if his Dad related Negan to this song just as Negan did unto him.

_How can I try to explain?_

_Cause when I do he turns away again._

_It's always been the same, same old story_

_From the moment I could talk I was ordered to listen_

_Now there's a way and I know that I have to go away_ _  
_

_I know I have to go._

_All the times that I cried_

_Keeping all the things I knew inside_

_It's hard, but it's harder to ignore it_

_If they were right, I'd agree_

_But it's them they know not me_

_Now there's a way and I know that I have to go away_ _  
_

_I know I have to go._

Negan quiets the music, and Rick asks,

“Where are we going?”

“The bakery,” Negan answers simply and Rick finds out after they’ve spent a fair amount of time driving, that this daycare bakery is actually in Seattle.

They’re only halfway there, and things are uncharacteristically quiet- no music, no talking.

Rick would reach out and turn up the radio, but he can sense that would do no good, that things would still be awfully stiff, just with sound.

He looks over at Negan, studies the side of his face as he looks straight ahead through the swoosh of the windshield wipers, eyes on the dull road.

Negan feels Rick’s eyes on his skin and he spares the boy a glance, meeting his eyes for a long second before he averts his gaze.

Rick clears his throat, then says, “Your mom drives to Seattle everyday?”

He’s sure it must sound like stunted small talk to anyone with ears, but all Rick is trying to do is get Negan to talk about his mom more and more, until it becomes easy.

And maybe Rick’s a little curious for some spare details as well.

“Yeah,” Negan answers, at first tersely. Then he swallows and Rick sees the bob of his Adam’s apple, “Sometimes, on the weekends or if I wanted to skip school, I’d go work with her.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah…” Negan says, and that’s the end of that conversation.

Rick is fine with that. It’s better than nothing.

-

When they get to the bakery, they rush inside, seeking refuge from the rain that has- in time- had its fervency return.

The place is packed, full of chatter and warmth that you can both see and feel. It radiates from coffee cups and mouths exuding hot air in between each syllable spoken.

Negan’s mother is behind the counter, taking orders, serving cups of coffee alongside other employees. She’s far more than occupied, her hair pulled up messily and her apron wrapped around her small frame with practiced precision, strings tied up in a working woman’s bow.

But she seems to put all matters aside when she lays eyes on her son. There’s a hint of a smile on her lips, and a whole lot of smile in her eyes.

Rick feels bad knowing the look is more than likely not being reciprocated.

They go up to the counter and Negan's mother says, “What are you two doing here?” She asks, delightfully surprised.

“Came to eat,” Negan says blankly and his mother seems to ground herself again, keeping her hopes in check.

But her hopes are not invalid. They didn't have to go outside of the city to eat.

“Oh,” she says, keeping her smile, though it takes som  ffort, “In that case, how can I help you two?”

The both of them order the day’s special: a breakfast sandwich that Negan's mom promises is really good, and some coffee.

She throws in some pastries for good measure, trying desperately to win over her sons love and maybe even tide over Rick, too.

Negan senses this and refuses to eat anything he hasn't paid for, standing his petulant ground. Therefore, Rick eats all the free food and Negan watches him from across the booth as though he's been betrayed.

“You wan’ some?” Rick asks with his mouth full, offering his boyfriend a half eaten bear claw, though he knows that's not why Negan is staring at him.

“No,” Negan mutters but his eyes scream yes.

“You sure? I already ate two. They're _reaallly_ good.”

Negan knows what he's trying to do and he narrows his eyes.

“I know they're really good,” he says, reluctantly adding, “They're my favorite.”

“So eat it then, if they're your favorite. It can't hear to try and make your mom happy.”

“Spent eighteen fucking years trying to make her and my Dad happy.”

“I think she's a little more low maintenance now…”

Negan goes quiet, looking down at the pastry in Rick's hand like it's an apple from the forbidden tree of good and evil.

Then he takes it from Rick's hand, and puts it in his mouth.

Rick sees it as a white flag being raised.

The two of them end up staying for quite some time, sitting there and looking at the rain falling outside, and talking easily.

Somehow they get to talking about Rick and Glenn's film.

“I never got to read your script, you know,” Negan says.

“I have it with me!” Rick suddenly remembers, eyes widening with it, “It's in my suitcase.”

“Gimme a sneak peek,” Negan says, mouth turning up in a half smile- not as flagrant as a smirk, “Straight from the Mastermind himself.”

Rick flushes again, like he's embarrassed.

“What do you wanna know?” He asks.

“Just… give me a brief summary. A synopsis, if you will.”

“Shut up,” Rick laughs at his wording.

Negan fucking loves that laugh.

“Okay,” Rick says, steeling himself firm, “Alright, um… so when I first came back to Austin and I was staying with Glenn and Maggie, Glenn kinda just told me this story about his friend from high school who was friends with this girl for a long time, and when they finally graduated, the girl tells him she's been in love with him since like the fourth grade, and this dude doesn't like her back, like at all, so she spends the rest of the summer before college dealing with it.”

“.... That's it.

“Well yeah! You asked for a summary. I can't tell you how it ends, only me and Glenn know.”

“Does she like, kick his ass? Or cry or something?”

“Well she's heartbroken, of course she's gonna cry.”

Negan furrows his brows, “I don't get it. Like, that's it? This poor girl gets her heartbroken, and this dude doesn't give a shit?”

“That's the thing, okay! Why does she have to be the _poor girl_ ? Why can't the guy be the _poor guy_ ? Maybe he missed his chance to actually find real love, maybe the _poor girl_ is actually the really _lucky girl_ who dodged a bullet. ...Have you ever dealt with unrequited love?”

“No,” Negan answers, “Have you?”

“No…” Rick says, “but after writing this movie, I feel like I fucking have- and it hurts like hell. I can't tell you how many times I cried writing this damn script.”

“.... Didn't you say this was supposed to be a comedy?”

“Yeah it is,” Rick agrees lightly, like it's obvious, “But you have to juxtapose the comedy with the sadness so you can appreciate the comedy more… That's what Glenn told me.”

Negan hmphs, smiling at the look on the boy's face: he's glowing, and his lips are tickled pink with how he's speaking so freely and passionately.

“Sounds… interesting.”

“You have to read it to understand,” Rick says, “You can read it when we get back to your house.”

-

Later on, Rick goes upstairs to play with the kids in the daycare, and Negan wearily trudges his way to his Mom, who's behind the counter, reading a book as she takes advantage of the slower hours of business.

She looks up, her hopes well contained this time around, and offers a small smile.

Negan sees her eyes look very sad and dull. He remembers when his own eyes were always in that state, and he'd look in the mirror and feel like his own lifeless stare was a stain he couldn't bleach off.

It made him stop looking at himself in the mirror for a while.

“Hey,” Negan greets, short and only half as curt as usual.

“Hi,” his mom says curiously, shutting her book.

Negan sighs, rolling his bottom lip between his teeth as he begins to run things over through his head.

_Does she deliberately try to hurt me? To lie to me?_

It doesn't seem like it, he answers himself.

Maybe she's just like him, and seems to make bad decisions all the time like it's a trend that never goes out of style.

“When's the funeral?” He asks finally, spitting out the words he's been choking on, watching her face as it shifts and nuances.

Guilt washes over her, as well as a dark shade of melancholy.

She looks up at him with wet eyes, “I couldn't tell you,” she says simply.

Negan's jaw clenches, “Why not?”

“You were just going into rehab. I didn't want you to forget about getting well again. I… I didn't know how you would react.”

“So you knew about that, too? You knew I wasn't alright and you didn't give a shit-neither did Dad,” His voice is deadly calm, lips frowning in harsh disgust and disappointment.

“What could we have done, Negan?” She asks gently, “Realistically, there was nothing we could’ve done. No one could've helped you when you were like that- only you could've. I'm sure you've learned that. You have to want it for yourself.”

Negan does know that, but that explanation doesn't feel much; not after all these years and all of his pain.

“Even if there was something we could've done or said, would you have listened?” She asks, “You resented us, just like you resent me now. We could've made it worse than it was.”

“It still would've been nice to know you actually gave enough of a shit to tell me he was dead,” Negan whispers, though there's nothing to his words but a blank voice.

“I'm sorry,” she says, so pained it pulls tight at every inch of Negan's skin, “I am. For everything. We had wanted to make good with you for so long, but we couldn't get a hold of you. And by the time we could your.. your Dad-” she can't finish her sentence, her eyes pooling too heavily and her voice too weak.

But she swallows it down, “I wasn't okay. For so long, I wasn't okay. I still don't know if I am. It's been a year and I still don't know. I needed to see you, so I could start to feel better. It's what your Dad wanted before he got sick. It's what I wanted.”

“He was so proud of you, you know,” she tells him, “So am I… Bought every record, every CD, every magazine, every t-shirt. Doubting you was the stupidest thing we've ever done, and we are _so_ sorry. _I'm_ so sorry.”

Negan takes a deep breath. He can't forgive her now, or him. He could, but it wouldn't be one hundred percent.

So instead of letting her or his dead father off the hook, he asks, “Where is he buried?”

-

The ride back to Tacoma is silent, too. Rick's not completely sure why, but he has a feeling it's largely due to Negan's talk with his mother.

He wonders what they were talking about, and when he wearily asks Negan as much, the man replies with, “My Dad,” and nothing more.

Rick doesn't push him any further.

When they're back at his house, and Rick's getting out of the car, he notices how Negan stays put.

“Do you mind staying here by yourself?” He asks.

Rick's heart sinks because he kind of does, but he doesn't know how to say so.

In the end he says, “Umm, I mean… kind of?”

Negan looks conflicted, but also full of conviction, “I’ll be back real soon, baby, I promise. I just.. I need to do something.. on my own.”

“What?” Rick asks, curiously.

“Need to see my Dad,” he answers. The _and Lucille_ part goes unsaid, “My mom will be home any minute now,” he adds, in case it's of any comfort.

“Okay,” Rick says, albeit wearily, before he adds, “I love you.”

Negan offers a weak twitch of the lips, “I love you too, baby,” he says quietly.

Then he gives Rick the key to his house, and he leaves, and Rick is left all alone in a weird way.

Not neglected, or forgotten, or dismissed- but trusted and reassured.

There's an echo in the house that Rick never noticed before, now that his boots hit the wooden steps of the stairs with no sound to disrupt them.

He wanders the upstairs part of the house like it's a new city he's never once stepped foot in.

He finds a computer room, a bathroom, a guest room, Negan's bedroom, Sonny’s bedroom, and then another room he cannot quite label.

It looks a bit like a living room, but upstairs, and largely made up of windows, letting in the new coming twilight of the evening.

There's a cushiony recliner perched in the center of the room, facing the windows, and it's made of old squishy, oxblood leather that looks as if it could swallow you whole.

Right beside it is a wooden stand, an old school tobacco pipe lying atop, dormant and still.

There's a TV, too- one of those boxy ones with the huge screen- the flat screens of the eighties- and pictures of Sonny in her youth and in her latter years as well as photos of Negan standing atop the thick mantle of the television, and a record player setup not too far away from an actual fucking phonograph.

Rick wonders if it still works, wants to ask Negan if it does- but then he knows it would rat out his impolite snooping, so he just settles for staring.

After a moment of thought and consideration, he deems the place to be a sort of man cave- and a very hipster man cave at that.

He walks over to the record player, which looks very vintage and rickety up close, and looks to see what was last listened to.

The vinyl itself is covered in a generous layer of dust, so no one has been listening for quite some time, and when Rick reads the inner circle, he comes to believe it was Negan's Dad who had the last listen.

It's not _Tea For The Tillerman_ or Neil Young’s _Harvest_ : it's the Saviors Sophomore album, and with the wear scratches that Rick can see, he assumes the record was shown a hefty amount of love.

Rick never got around to listening to their sophomore album, even though he bought it. Or the first one, despite the few years both records have been out.

He figures with the amount of copies the shop sells, it must be pretty good, and as he stares down at the dusty record, he figures it's better late than never.

But first he cleans the record, because that's just good vinyl etiquette.

Then he looks at the track listing, and he sees a song he vaguely recognizes, and he gives himself a moment to remember where from.

_Wah Poem._

It takes him a while, but then it hits him: that Rolling Stone interview. This is Negan's favorite song off the album, supposedly.

He drops the needle on the now dust free record with the hopes of finding out why, and again it takes him a while, as he listens intently to the lyrics, but when he figures it out, he bursts into tears in a matter of seconds.

That’s _Rick's_ poem; the poem he had written in a distressed stupor, trying to let his emotions spill out from within him and onto the paper like a neti pot to the nose.

He hadn't liked the outcome, but apparently someone had.

-

_Beloved husband._

_Proud Father._

_1966-2021_

That, along with his name, is all the headstone reads, with a pretty little rose engraved in detail beside it.

Next to that grave is a saved spot for his Mother, or so it reads, and that's it.

Negan feels like he should've brought something- some flowers… or a case of  beer- like some of the towns rednecks do with their fallen loved ones and friends- maybe a pack of cigarettes.

His Dad was a heavy smoker.

Negan doesn't know how he died, but he's willing to bet the cigarettes were to blame.

“I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner,” Negan whispers to the dirt and the tiny specks of grass that lie atop his dead dad, “that I didn't want to be a fucking baseball player. I didn't even know myself that it wasn't what I wanted. Maybe if I had, things wouldn't have been like this. Maybe I could've seen you sooner, maybe I wouldn't have had to leave in the first place, or stop talking to you and Mom.” Negan swallows thickly, feeling like an idiot for talking to a fucking grave, but he has to get it out, “But that's what happened, and that's how it is… and I'm

not mad anymore. At you. Or mom. Sure what you guys did was fucked, but I've done some fucked things, too, and it's easier to let it be than it is to regret it… I don't regret anything. Not one bit. It all happened, it's in the past. Sometimes I don't even remember the pain, just the good things- that's how faded all the bad things have become- so I don't regret anything. I was meant to be here, talking to you through six feet of the fucking earth, after twelve short fucking years.”

When he pauses, he nearly expects his Dad to talk back to him; however, even if he were to imagine it, he wouldn't have the correct memory of what his voice sounded like. It's been a while.

“I'm in love, Dad… with a man. His name is Rick and I love him so fucking much. I love him with all my fucking heart.. I love him like how you loved Mom, like how Mom loves you… Fuck, I wish you could've met him,” Negan feels wet tears fall from his eyes and they don't feel like his, “I don't know how you would've felt about us being together, but you always wore those tiny ass shorts even when the neighbors started calling you an f-a- double g- o- t so I don't think you would've been a bitch about it. Either way, I just wanted to tell you.”

“And I wanted to thank you,” he adds, “For raising me on some badass music. I’ll never forget any of those songs. I'll show them to my kids.. to my grandkids… I love you, Dad.”

His bidding words are met with a warmth in his chest, like a gentle hand has laid to rest on his heart.

Negan thinks that's his Dad.

He wipes his eyes, and then goes to find Lucille. He tells her about Rick, too, and Alpha.

Negan thinks Lucille would've liked Alpha.

He thinks she would've liked Rick, too.

-

When Negan gets back, he's quiet and glum, looking like he has a lot on his mind.

Rick doesn't press him about anything, or force him to talk.

He understands that what Negan is going through is heavy and internal, that sometimes you have to let yourself heal with time and space.

But it still hurts when Negan asks Rick if he can sleep in the guest room, even if hurting him was not the intention.

“I just- I just need to be by myself for a little,” he says, eyes apologetic and tired, “It's not you, I promise, I just-”

“No, no, I get it,” Rick says softly, and Negan looks up at him, “I do. It's okay.” He manages to stifle his disappointment for Negan's sake.

Negan nods, warm eyes endlessly grateful.

“I love you,” he says, pulling Rick in for a kiss with a hand on the back of his neck.

“I love you, too,” Rick says back, “If you need me, just let me know.”

-

Rick can't sleep, and it reminds him of those first few months of restless nights he had without Negan's warmth pressed against him, but now it's worse because it's too damn cold in Washington for a Texas born boy.

He knows from experience that he'll eventually get tired enough that sleep will finally give in and let Rick at it, but until then he spends the majority of the night trying to tire himself out by watching horrible infomercials.

He's mouth breathing, watching an infomercial for the magic bullet, bundled up in three layers of thick blankets when he gets a text from Negan.

 _Need you_ is all it reads, and Rick's tearing himself from his fleece cocoon and tip toeing down the halls and into Negan's room in no time.

Wordlessly, he settles into Negan's bed with him, all of the harbored warmth soaking into his bones as he pulls Negan into his chest.

The man goes almost urgently, furrowing deep into Rick until his nose is pressed into his sternum.

Rick's not sure if he’ll vent, or cry, or something like that- he's not sure if he even needs to. He's just here to be here for Negan, not be some sort of therapist.

“Didn't get to read your script,” Negan points out after a moment, voice a mumble.

“Don't worry about it, baby. You can read it tomorrow. Or whenever you want.”

Negan nods softly against him, acknowledging his answer.

“You alright?” Rick asks- in case the man does want to talk- his voice creaky like the floorboards of Negan's house and tired like how the both of them are.

Or really, they're both just restless.

Negan meditates on the question and he finds that now, with the comfort of Rick pressed solid against him, ever present and reliant, all of his befuddlement and his concerns seem muted and unimportant.

“I'm better now,” he says, cheesy but sincere- proven by his tone. “Can't sleep, though,” he adds.

At that, Rick begins carding his fingers through Negan's hair, grazing his scalp gently.

That definitely does works some wonders, as usual.

Still Rick asks, “What can I do to help?”

Negan's already feeling ten times better and all the while relaxed and warm- inside and out- but still he asks, “Sing to me?”

He hears the amusement in Rick's voice when he repeats the question back to him, “Sing to you?”

Negan nods against his chest.

“What song?”

“Whatever comes to your head first.”

Rick hmphs, still amused, and searches his head for ideas.

He starts a moment later, voice airy from disuse and hushed due to the commands of nightfall and the thin walls of the house.

“ _Nobody ever loved me like she do me. Oh she do me. Yeah she does.”_

Negan listens on in innocent interest, admiring the softness of Rick's voice, all unkempt and organic and definitely unpolished, but nice all in all.

“ _And from the first time that she really done me. Oh she done me. She done me good. I guess nobody ever really done me. Oh she done me. She done me good.”_ Rick changes the key of the chorus, accommodating it to his circumstances, straying from the desperate cry John Lennon had and instead keeping hush as he sings, “ _Don't let me down._

_Don't let me down._

_Don't let me down._

_Don't let me down.”_

Negan's breathing evens out, smooth and steady, feeling the vibrations of Rick voice under his ear coax him to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading! I hope you enjoyed and as always, feedback and constructive criticism are more than welcome. :) <3333


	19. Dreams of Silver Screen Quotation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs mentioned in this chapter include:  
> 'Yellow Ledbetter' by Pearl Jam  
> 'Californication' by The Red Hot Chili Peppers

Negan wakes up on Christmas morning to the sound of Rick snoring beside him. The dreary gray sunlight is seeping in through the window and onto his face, layering warmth on top of the cold that the night bit into his skin.

He hears someone bustling about downstairs, and knows it can only be one person. Carefully, Negan removes himself from the bed, careful not to startle the boy beside him.

Then he heads downstairs, stepping gingerly; quiet as though he's a child sneaking up on Santa Claus in the middle of the night. 

But he turns the corner, and he sees his mother, sitting alone at the kitchen table, staring down at a steaming cup of coffee.

She doesn't notice him until he's taking a seat in front of her. Even when she does, it still it takes her a moment to face him.

“Merry Christmas,” Negan says when she looks up.

Her eyes are heavy and sad- shimmering a melancholy brown- but she gives a weak smile.

“Merry Christmas,” she says back.

Negan gives a frail attempt at a smile before he surveys the kitchen around him.

It's just the same as always: collected clutter and ripening fruit on the kitchen table, chipped paint on the walls and a rickety oven that's seen much love:

His mother always baking birthday cakes for him or his Dad or herself, or the neighbors or the neighbor’s neighbors. Always cooking, always baking; gourmand scents seeping beneath doors and past windows, finding the noises of all that were near.

“Been awhile since we shared one together, huh?” 

His mother's jaw clenches like she's trying not to cry, and she looks back down at her coffee.

Negan pretends not to notice the tears that plop into the dark, murky liquid.

“Nothing's been the same ever since you left. Ever since your Dad died,” she takes in a deep sigh, widening her lungs, and then she's looking up again, wearily facing her son as she says, “I think- I think I’m going to join him soon. I can feel it.. I feel it coming in my bones, like when you sense the rain or something.”

“Mom,” Negan nearly gasps, surprised by his mother's words- she was always the strong one, the tough one- “don't say that.”

“I'm just telling you the truth, son, and that's okay. I want you to know that it's okay to let go. That's what life is about: passing on and going away, and that's okay.”

Negan guffaws.

This sounds nothing like his Mom, nothing like who he had been talking to yesterday at the bakery, nothing like the tenacious woman who'd raised him.

“Listen to yourself, for Christ's sake!” He yells in a hush, “You're basically fucking telling me it's okay to give up- that's not you, mom, thats not-” he sighs, shaking his head free of disbelief, “Look, you have all of dad's life insurance, all of the money he left behind, right? Take a trip, go.. see some shows or something- go live. Life is about living, not dying or  _ passing on _ . It's- it's about….enduring and finding happiness and ..love.”

“And I had those last two.. don't have them anymore.”

He sighs, “Not just that kind of happiness, or that kind of love... I used to think like that, too, when I met Rick. I fell so deeply in love with him that I forgot about myself and my other loves and I let something that's supposed to make me a better person ruin me. There's other types of love- like the love I have for music, and my band, my friends, and for you… and Dad. And myself.”

His mom is openly crying now, looking up at her son with a medley of tears running  down her face- both happy and sad- and a wet smile.

She reaches a hand out to cup Negan's cheek.

“If I could go back all those years, I wouldn't have done what I did. I would've been a better Mom. You deserved a better Mom.”

Negan shakes his head, careful not to dislodge her hand, “I got a pretty good Mom. A great one. I wouldn't take it back.”

Her tears well up further and Negan says, “I forgive you.”

In the blink of an eye she's at his side of the table, pulling him into a tight hug.

Negan lets himself sink into it: the warming love that radiates off his mother.

He's yearned for it for so long.

When she pulls away, her tears have dried up, and she seems to remember something.

“We’re gonna have company over sometime later,” she informs him, “Aunts, uncles, cousins- I have to go to the grocery store before it closes, can you start peeling potatoes for me?”

“I hate peeling potatoes,” Negan grimaces in a way that doesn't quite reveal his age.

His mother gives him a look and he sighs, “Fine… I guess.”

“That's the spirit,” she says, “Maybe you could get your little lover boy to help you.”

Negan's hmphs, quietly adjusting, “Maybe.”

-

After his mom has gone off to the store, Negan makes his way back up to his room to rouse Rick out of bed and change into a fresh set of clothes.

But when he gets there and sees his boyfriend all bundled up in blankets and sheets, curls wild and mussed, snoring deeply in Negan's childhood bed, he can't bring himself to wake him up- even if it is Christmas morning.

So, quietly, he rummages through his dresser looking for something decent to wear, since family is going to be over.

He thinks maybe he can wear something nicer than a t-shirt and his leather jacket for once, but as his search continues on- he finds he doesn't have much to work with.

He finds something else, though, something that makes him snort loud into the air, nearly waking up Rick, who shifts and rolls in his slumber.

Deep in the bowels of his drawer, he finds a Savior's t-shirt with his face on it and he must admit, whoever took this picture of him knew his goddamn angles because he looks pretty fucking good.

He steals a glance at Rick, still sleeping, then back at the shirt, nearly bursting into laughter again as he scurries out of the room again in search of some wrapping paper.

-

Negan's nearly done peeling his third bag of potatoes, his hands covered in starch water and dusty residue, music playing off of his phone, when Rick descends the stairs. 

Negan looks over his shoulder at him and smiles.

Rick gives a sleepy smile in return.

“What's cookin’, good lookin’?” he rasps, and his voice cracks so hard from the coldness of his vocal cords.

Negan honks out a laugh and Rick's too tired to worry about being embarrassed.

“Mornin’ beautiful,” Negan greets, craning his neck further to try and keep his eyes on the boy coming up behind him, “You wanna help me out here?” He gestures to the mess he has in the sink.

“Nope,” Rick says, popping the ‘p’, and he wraps his arms around Negan's waist, hooking his chin onto the man's shoulder, “I’m good.” Their stubbly cheeks scratch against one another, “Merry Christmas,” he says.

Negan sets down his peeler, turns around in Rick's arms, pulling him close, “Merry Christmas, baby,” he says, smooching Rick on the lips. Then he's giving the boy a sly once over, taking in his ensemble of baggy gray sweatpants and that old Nirvana t-shirt Negan had given him years ago.

“And aren't you lookin’ like a damn present?” Negan says, even though Rick doesn’t see how he could think that, “If someone had told me five years ago you'd look even better in that shirt than you did then, I woulda told them that's fuckin’ impossible… but here you fuckin’ are, like a goddamn angel.”

Rick gives him a smile shining with somber undertones- but it shines nonetheless, “You're an idiot,” he says, “I love you.”

Negan kisses him again, “Love you too, hon,” he moves his hands down to cup Rick's ass just before he slides his hands beneath the waistband, eyebrows rising in delightful surprise when he immediately meets the soft flesh of Rick’s ass. 

Rick flushes, lips spread slightly from a small, silent gasp.

“Shit… I get the whole damn present and I only gotta do half the unwrapping,” he squeezes hard, spreading the boy apart just enough to rub his thumb against the tight ring of muscle, their eyes unable to leave one another’s while Negan does so. 

Rick lets out a noise that’s half a moan, half a laugh, saying, “You’re touchin’ me with your gross potato hands.”

Negan removes his hands, wiping them thoroughly on Rick’s sweatpants, “Fuck, my bad.”

Before Rick can say anything about it, he’s being hoisted off the ground and placed onto an empty space on the counter. 

Negan’s kissing his collarbones, tugging at his sweats when Rick swats his hand away, realization dawning on him.

“Where’s your mom?” He asks.

“She just left to the grocery store,” Negan says between kisses, “Don’t worry, we’ve got time. My mom lives at the fuckin’ grocery store.”

Rick’s eyes flutter shut at the gentleness of Negan’s lips, but he says, “We’re not doing anything on this counter.”

“Why not?”

Rick opens his eyes to give him a pointed look, “People eat here! Your mom cooks here, for God’s sake.”

Negan sighs, pulling away and acknowledging his defeat, only to shrug.

“Couch?”

“...Fine.”

Without another word, Negan picks Rick up off the counter and carries him over to the living room. He’s definitely still not as strong as he used to be, but he’s slowly getting there, and the couch isn’t all that long a trek from the kitchen.

He lies Rick down and does his best to straddle him with the small space that the couch provides, slinking down the boy’s lap and pulling his sweatpants down with him as he goes. 

“God damn,” Negan purrs, not sure where to look or what to do first when someone as gorgeous as Rick is laid out before him. Eventually his eyes do settle somewhere, “Those fucking thighs, baby,” He marvels and Rick sighs softly beneath the affection as Negan runs his hands along the firm planes of his quads, caressing with awe and reverence.

Inevitably, his mouth follows the same path, sneaking past Rick’s stiff, needy cock and taking his time from hip to knee as Rick’s hands slip into the mess of Negan’s dark hair, grip tightening on the black strands as his boyfriend's lips come closer and closer to his cock.

Rick whines when he lingers on the thin skin of his inner thighs, only inches away from his hard length though it feels like miles, and he guides the man’s head toward the neglected area, saying, “Suck me, baby,  _ please. _ ”

“You want me to suck your cock, sweetheart?” Negan teases, running his fingers lightly along Rick’s cock, leaning in to plant a chaste kiss just beneath the head, making his dick twitch hard against the man's lips, eager for touch.

“Yes, like I just fucking told-” Rick’s frustrated tone is interrupted when Negan practically swallows him whole, making Rick choke on his own words, coated in ragged breath.

Rick’s hands fly up over his head, leaving Negan’s hair to grip onto the armrest of the couch as his head falls back alongside them.

“Oooh,  _ fuck _ ,” Rick hisses, skin flushing from the sensation of wet heat, of a tongue so smooth swirling against the head of his cock, groaning, “Yes, baby, yes.  _ Oh, yes _ .”

Negan slides up until he’s only got the tip encompassed, leaving Rick to thrust up into his mouth. He feels the way the boy’s thighs begin to tense-the way his thrusts get irregular and frantic, how his breathing gets airy and vocal- and he moves his mouth away, smirking at the wrecked cry that sounds from the boy as he fucks up into the vacant air. 

Rick looks up at him like he’s crazy and Negan just smiles, saying, “Get on your stomach.”

The boy huffs, but complies, and Negan makes sure he doesn’t search too hard for friction in the material of the couch, because this load is  _ his _ .

Negan ogles the gorgeous ass on display for a long moment, eyes hungry, before he finally puts his hands on it, spreading Rick apart and getting a good look at his pretty pink hole. 

“God, I used to live in this beautiful fucking ass- remember, baby?” Rick nods frantically and Negan smirks, “Fucked this ass like my life depended on it. Ate this ass like my life depended on it; like yours depended on it. And you just fucking  _ adored  _ that shit, now didn't you?”

Rick lets out a needy whimper, rutting deep into the couch below him.

“Answer me,” Negan slaps his ass hard enough to make it sting, and when Rick cries out, Negan realizes he definitely should've asked if that was okay, should've warned him, but he hadn't planned on doing it in the first place.

“ _ Yes _ ,” Rick moans deeply, voice gritty as he ruts harder, “Loved it so much, so fucking much.”

Negan notices the flush from the tips of his ears coloring down the lovely ripples of Rick's toned back, nearly scarlet in saturation, and he thinks _holy_ _shit, Rick likes being spanked_.

Still he makes sure, “You like that?” He asks, leaning down and kissing over the skin now stained red by his slap, “You like when I spank you like that, baby?”

Negan expects the boy to tell him to shut up like he usually does when Negan gets a little too verbal and a little too cocky, but instead he just whines, saying, “Mhm. Do it again, Negan. Please, baby.”

He slaps him again, relishing the jiggle and jump of the boy's flesh, followed by the satisfied cry Rick lets out.

Negan rubs over it quickly with a calloused palm, kissing up the small of Rick's back.

“ _ Harder _ ,” Rick moans, “Do it again, harder.”

Another slap, sounding sharp and forceful in the air, then honey smooth as Rick cries out, loud and guttural.

“ _ Harder!” _

Rick screams when skin meets skin once again, a sting rippling across his flesh. It hurts in the best way, makes the rest of him feel like a live wire- so sensitive, so reactive.

Negan takes a look at Rick's ass, one cheek pale and easy while the other is a lustful red, printed with a smattered layering of a wicked hand. 

“Is that enough, baby? You want more?” He asks, soothing the tender skin with another rub.

Rick shakes his head no, “Want you to eat me out,” he says, tilting his hips up towards Negan's face.

“Course you do,” Negan smirks, dipping down to lick flatly at the boy's hole, “My mom should be home pretty soon… does that excite you? Knowing someone could come in and see you all undone for me, with your ass all up in my fucking face, riding back on my tongue?”

“Actually, no it doesn't. It makes me nervous- Especially if that's someone is your mom, you freak,” Rick replies curtly, “So hurry up and make me cum.”

Negan closes a fist around Rick's cock, “If you say so, Princess. Just don't get any jizz on the fuckin’ couch, family's coming over.” 

Negan submerges his face in Rick's ass, and the boy moans wretchedly before he finally comprehends Negan's words.

_ “Wait, what?!” _

-

They're on the couch, Rick's sweatpants pulled up to his waist and soiled with cum as he lays like jelly, Negan sitting at his feet, watching him soundly.

They're still home alone, and music plays from Negan's phone still, music Rick hadn't noticed until now as his head begins to clear from his daze.

It's Pearl Jam; Rick recognizes that voice, thick and bellowed, angry sometimes but sultry all the time. 

He recognizes the song, too. He used to listen to it a lot by himself in his room at his parents house, then by himself in his own apartment- and now with Negan.

It's still just as good listening to it by himself as it is listening to it with the man, and the words snake between them, in all the crevices.

_ Unsealed, on a porch a letter sat _

_ Then you said, “I wanna leave it again.” _

_ Once I saw her on a beach of weathered sand _

_ And on the sand I wanna leave her again _

The vocals are so messy, like a drunken babble, but that sex appeal remains and it nearly pushes Rick right back into the mood again.

“Eddie Vedder is hot,” Rick states, blunt from his stupor.

Negan laughs, smiling, “You're gonna tell me that after I just ate the fuck out of your ass?”

Rick shrugs, smiling back lazily with no other words to offer. At least not any he can immediately think of. 

But then a moment later, he can.

“You didn't tell me you're having family over,” he says.

“Yeah, it kinda.. slipped my mind,” he says honestly, laden with slight apology, “You distracted me with your tight ass and my t-shirt.”

Rick smiles again, but Negan notices the subtle nuances in all his face.

“Are you nervous?” He asks, “About meeting them?”

“Well, yeah. They're your family,” Rick answers.

“You'll be fine,” Negan assures, voice mild, “They'll love ya.” 

He thinks back vaguely to Rick's family, meeting them, and then re-meeting them that one night so many years ago. 

Red and a blue flashing lights and giant rocks thrown at a brick house and running panicked down roads with potholes and loose gravel.

He knows for sure they don't love him, let alone like him.

“Just as long as you change into some new clothes,” Negan adds, “I'm sure not everyone wants to see the fruits of our sexy ass relationship all over your fuckin’ sweatpants.” 

Rick looks down at his mess, at his tattered shirt, “You're probably right.”

“That reminds me,” Negan says, and as he recalls his gift he has to stifle a laugh, “I got something for ya.”

Rick raises a curious brow, “Oh really? Like what?”

Negan gets to his feet, saying “Gimme a second,” as he retreats to the kitchen, only to come back with a poorly wrapped Christmas present.

He places it in Rick's hands, saying eagerly, “Well open it, ya goof.”

Rick complies happily and Negan anticipates his reaction as he unfolds the t-shirt.

The boy lets out a joyous laugh, all good humor and delight- not what Negan had been expecting.

He'd been expecting to see black cotton thrown back in his face, and a look from icy blue eyes wordlessly telling him just how insufferable he is.

Maybe secretly he had been hoping for the reaction Rick was giving him now.

“Aw, I love it,” Rick says, his unrelenting grin a testament to his words, “It's a good picture,” he adds as he holds the t-shirt out before him, studying it fondly. 

Negan's glad someone thought so.

“I'm gonna put it on right now,” Rick states proudly,in matter of fact, and he sits up, pulling his shirt off only to replace it.

Negan doesn't mention that it was supposed to be a joke- doesn't think Rick would care anyways. In fact, he thinks Rick would still shamelessly love it despite the intentional vanity, if that had been the case.

Instead Negan just smirks, eyeing Rick's form as he wears him on his chest, and says, “You look fucking amazing with my face on your tits.”

-

Admittedly  _ and _ noticeably, Rick is as nervous as all hell about meeting Negan's family. His palms are sweaty as he shakes the hands of Negan's aunt and uncles and cousins, and his back is damp as they pull him into a hug, catching Rick off guard.

But despite that, Rick's happy to see everyone so ecstatic to see Negan, loves seeing the flush on Negan's cheeks when he gets pulled into a crushing embrace or when he gets lipstick on his forehead from a particularly gracious smooch. 

During dinner, Rick gets asked the usual questions like  _ what do you do? _ and  _ how did you and Negan meet? _

He answers honestly and to the best of his abilities- which means he stutters maybe once or twice and Negan has to rub his back with a calming hand because he's afraid the poor guy might choke on his food.

That being said, things are expectedly stiff and awkward- like he's settling in, because he is. 

“So do your parents know about Negan?” One of Negan's teenage cousins asks- Rick can't remember his name, it slipped right past all his nerves- after the three of them have retired to the living room, “That he's like a huge rockstar and you two are like, gay or whatever?”

“We’re not gay, Timmy, Jesus Christ. Is that all they teach you in high school? Homo and hetero and fuckin’ nothing else? Do you not even remember Lucille??”

“I was like three when she was around, sheesh!”

Rick answers to quiet their bickering, “Uh, yeah they know.”

“Do they like him?”

“I mean, uh, yeah- well, I don't- I mean…”

“Timmy, didn't your parents ever tell you to mind your own goddamn business?” Negan cuts in, slightly defensive.

Something flickers for a second on his face, something like disappointment.

Rick wonders if it was because of what he said. 

“I liked you better when the only fuckin’ word you knew was ‘cheese’.”

“I liked you better when you weren't allowed to say the f-word around me,” Timmy retorts. 

“Fuck you, Timmy,” Negan mutters, and then he's getting to his feet. “I need a fucking non alcoholic beer,” he says, before he turns to Rick, “You want anything, babe?”

Rick sees that something flicker across his face again. Instead of saying anything about it in front of Timmy, he just shakes his head and Negan's walking towards the kitchen.

Then it's just Rick and Timmy, and Timmy looks like he has a lot of questions to ask.

But before he can get around to asking, the front door is opening and a haggard looking young woman wearing sweats and a drooling baby on her hip crosses the threshold.

“Sorry I’m late, Timmy Jr. threw up all over my dress so I had to change- … Timmy who’s this?”

“This is Rick,” Timmy says, raising a suggestive eyebrow when he adds, “Negan's  _ boyfriend.” _

The woman raises an eyebrow right back as Rick politely greets her, “Well would ya look at that?” She smirks, and it looks awful familiar, “Hey, Rick. I'm Lauren, Negan's cousin… and Timmy’s sister.”

Timely enough, Negan chooses that moment to return, and he looks godsmacked as he does a double take towards his relative.

“Holy shit, you fucking pro-created???”

“Not exactly,” Lauren says with smile, looking down at her son, “Adopted.”

“Holy shit,” Negan says again, setting his fake beer down wherever he can, “Let me hold the little guy.”

“Please do,” she says, easily handing her child to Negan, “I'm gonna go eat.” Then she's gone and Negan has a distraught baby in his hands who looks an inch away from crying and Rick's heart flutters at the scene before him.

Negan panics, trying to bounce the frowning baby into tranquility, speaking sweet reassurances, but it doesn't work and a large cry erupts from the little critter.

“Way to go, Negan,” Timmy teases smugly.

“Let me hold him,” Rick says eagerly, and Negan doesn't dare hesitate handing the kid over.

Negan watches as his boyfriend does everything he himself had been doing, but better somehow. 

There's just something about his face, and the sweet tone in his voice that speaks to the child in  _ what's wrong? yeah, I know, I know.. _ that works like magic.

“Damn,” Negan says, voice soft and amused, “you're a fuckin’ natural, aren't ya, Ricky Dicky?”

“Used to babysit in high school,” Rick explains, tearing his eyes away from the infant on his hip to look up at Negan, “and for Glenn and Maggie when I lived with ‘em.”

Negan smiles at that, pictures a teenage Rick frazzled by the stress of erratic children, pictures little Hershel Rhee on his hip, not a far cry from the little dude that occupies that space now.

“What's the kid's name?” Negan asks, gesturing towards the baby who's now fighting sleep in Rick’s arms.

“....Timmy Jr,” Timmy says.

It takes Negan a second, but then a large wheeze sounds from deep within him, and Timmy scowls.

“Jesus,” Negan laughs, wiping tears from his eyes, “That's fucking gold. Lauren's a fucking genius.”

“Fuck you, Negan,” Timmy says, getting to his feet and making his way towards the kitchen, “I'm leaving. You two were making me sick anyways.”

-

It takes everything to pry that baby from Rick's hands.

For nearly the entire evening, Rick's on the couch, Negan beside him, and Timmy Jr. sleeping soundly on Rick's shoulder, lying peacefully on his chest.

It leaves Rick with little mobility, but he doesn't seem to mind. In fact, he seems to enjoy having a small baby sleep on him, despite the drool and the gurgles.

“It's good for the soul,” Rick says when Negan brings it up, and Negan scoffs, albeit fondly, because in the end it was all too much cuteness. 

Lauren had insisted on laying her son down for a nap, to which Rick insisted on leaving the kid be- declaring Timmy Jr. was of no annoyance.

That's how Negan finds Rick when he returns from a quick chat with some family, in the same position he'd been in for the past two hours- baby lounging on him as he lounges on the couch- his head tipped back in sleep, emitting soft snores.

They both look so tranquil despite the raucous of a family get together all around them.

It's shame Negan has to wake Rick up and tell him Lauren is leaving and therefore needs her son back.

Rick's heart looks like it breaks more than a little when Lauren pries Timmy Jr. off of him and the baby starts crying, making grabby hands at his newfound napping buddy as his mother carried him out the door.

Negan was sure he would’ve gotten over in due time, but his beliefs were proven wrong just hours later.

“I want a baby,” Rick tells him later, when it's late and everyone has left and Negan's mom is upstairs sleeping.

Negan's playing his guitar, lying on the couch with his head in Rick's lap. 

Rick has just been listening to him play like he would all the time, years ago. It was something Rick loved to do, and sometimes- especially then, when he could hardly get a peep out of Negan- it felt like he was getting more insight out of hearing him play than he would with anything else. 

Negan's playing comes to a halt when Rick’s words hit the air.

“I don't think I can give you one,” he chuckles in response, looking up at the boy threading his fingers through his hair, “Can't plant a seed in an ass.”

Rick rolls his eyes, but he's smiling like a fool, slapping Negan playfully on the head.

“I know that, you idiot,” he grins, “but we could… adopt? Like Lauren.”

“Right now?”

“No, not now,” Rick says quietly, “but… one day.”

Negan thinks about Alpha and her dreams of having a child. He knows she had fantasized about  _ one day _ and that never came. It was too late. 

What if he never gets his  _ one day _ ? His everlasting peace? What if he never gets everything he needs?

But he knows thinking like that will only keep him from growing, from living, from truly finding his place- so he leaves them, deciding to just focus on now and the words that have fallen from Rick’s mouth.

If he never gets everything he needs, well then maybe he didn’t really need it. 

He looks up at Rick, a love-struck smirk turning his face into warm goo, “You wanna have a baby with me, Rick Grimes?”

Rick's grin persists, “Well… yeah. Of course.”

“Even after seeing how well I handled lil ole Timmy Jr.?” 

Rick laughs, nodding, “Even after that. You were nervous. Babies can be intimidating, I get it.”

“Yet you turned the little shit into straight up goo. Made him cry at the thought of having to leave you.”

Rick shrugs, “I have that effect on people.”

Now Negan laughs, “That you most certainly fucking do.” 

With that, Negan resumes playing and Rick resumes listening, running his fingers through Negan's hair. 

Then he comes to a stop once again only a few minutes later, suddenly remembering, “Hey, your script!”

Rick looks down at him, surprised he remembered, “You really wanna read it right now? It's pretty late… plus it’s kinda long.”

“Of course I fucking wanna,” Negan answers, “Bring it to me, baby.”

“Alright then get offa me, doofus.”

Once Rick is freed, he steps quietly up the stairs to retrieve his script, buried beneath the clothes in his suitcase.

When he comes back down and Negan sees the thick booklet in his hands, he guffaws.

_ “Holy shit!” _ his voice booms, an incredulous smile dressing his face, “Is that the fucking Bible?”

Rick shushes him quickly, though he’s giggling. “Your mom is sleeping!” He reminds him, his whisper a hiss. 

_ “Holy shit, is that the Bible??” _ Negan says again, this time in an exaggerated whisper.

“I told you it was long,” Rick says.

“How long is this movie supposed to be?” Negan asks.

“Glenn and I aren’t really sure. We might add things on, we might take things off, we might make it into a two parts kind of thing.”

“Shit, maybe we should get some snacks… This is gonna be one hell of a fuckin’ ride.”

“We’re never gonna get anywhere if all you’re thinkin’ about is snacks,” Rick chides, and its truth is not in vain: They get to reading an hour later, over the noise of their crunching and chewing and swallowing, and it takes them a while more to get through the script.

Negan’s got his head in Rick’s lap, body laid out against the rest of the couch as the boy sits up straight, his typed out writing just before Negan’s nose as he’s reading it aloud to the man.

Negan has never been good with books- that Rick knew. He’s also severely dyslexic, Rick learns.

He hadn’t known that. 

The fact that he still wanted to read it so badly makes Rick's heart clench. 

Throughout the night, or really, throughout Rick and Glenn’s story, there are moments where Negan laughs so hard he gets spit on the script’s pages, where he smiles so hard his eyes stretch into happy, bunched up slits, where he frowns so deep it makes his lips twitch, where his jaw drops low enough to scrape the floor, where things are righteous enough or unfortunate enough that he feels the need to cry, where all those factors come in together and really make the tears fall, running softly into Rick’s jeans. 

When it’s all over, and Rick has read Negan the ending that only he and Glenn were supposed to know, Negan is moved to his core and Rick is a blushing beauty awaiting Negan’s review- as if the tears in his eyes and on the boy’s pants did not make his astonishment evident. 

“That was- shit, that was…  _ wow _ ,” Negan stutters, “Not gonna lie, that was better than I was expecting and I already had the bar set up  _ way _ fuckin’ high because I’ve read your writing before and you’re fucking amazing but, wow,” Negan takes a breath, looking up at Rick with a soft smirk, “I’m at a fucking loss for words, baby. But I… I feel it. Somethin’. Makes me wanna make shit. It inspires the hell out of me. That rarely happens to me: hearing or reading something that isn’t music and feeling inspired, feeling like I want to make something the way I know how to make shit. I feel like I could write a whole fucking double length album.”

“Thank you,” Rick smiles bashfully, and he knows this isn’t the first time Negan has felt this way with his writing, not if that one song has any say so about it. 

“I heard your song,” Rick says quietly, boring down into his boyfriend’s eyes, “off the second album. My words- you guys turned it into a song.  _ You _ turned it into a song.”

“Did you like it?” Negan asks, almost unsure, “It’s my favorite.”   
“I know it is,” Rick says, “I loved it. How did you- how did you find it?”

“Piece of paper was lying on the floor of your room; It was the only thing I had left of you after you moved out,” Negan replies after a moment, “I loved it… I felt it, what you wrote, It made me feel like shit. I’m sorry that I made you feel that way. It’s still hard for me to forgive myself for that sometimes.”

Rick shakes his head, “Don’t be sorry.  _ Destruction leads to a very rough road, but it also breeds creation _ ,” Rick quotes a line from a song, “Guess that much is true, huh? Had to feel somethin’.”

Negan nods, agreeing, “Had to feel something.”

They lounge in silence for sometime longer, gently gazing into each other’s eyes, crawling beneath each other’s skin in a warm way.

“You know,” Rick begins again, “we still haven’t found the right music for our movie. Too much legal problems, too many boring, generic scores and not enough songs to fit what we want the movie to be. Maybe we could work somethin’ out. You and The Saviors and me and Glenn. Or just you and me and Glenn, whatever’s better.”

“Yeah, darlin’?” Negan grins, ever flattered, “You wanna collab? Join forces and all that? I’m down, I’m so fuckin’ down.”

“Really?”

“Fuck yes, really,” Negan says, “Haven’t felt this damn excited about writing music in a long ass time. I’ll tell the others about it, see if they’re up for it too, then we can work something out. If not, well, I’d still be down as a fucking dog anyways.”

Rick grins impossibly so, “Okay. I’ll bring it up to Glenn.”

Negan grins back and they can feel it:

This is going to be so good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading!! I hope you enjoyed and as always, feedback and constructive criticism are more than welcome!! :) <333  
> Also im thinking about posting my high school au pretty soon some time in November so keep an eye out for that :)


	20. Don't Let It Get You Down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so its been a damn while. ive had this written and ready to go for a while lmao sorry guys smh ive just been so sad thinking about this being over cuz its my baby. i kinda separated myself from this story just to put off the ending. Im thinking this will be over in one more chapter plus an epilogue, but who knows. maybe ill fuck shit up again so i wont have to say goodbye to this badboy ;) 
> 
> Anyways, songs mentioned in this chapter include:  
> 'Making Breakfast' by Twin Peaks.

Negan starts to notice that this trip has ended up being he and Rick holed up in his room, fucking like jackrabbits and sucking like vacuums, more so than it has been the healing experience between Negan and his mother that it was intended to be.

Yes, Negan did need some support in the beginning, but things are not so tough now. He and his mother aren't where they used to be, but that's something that will take time, both the over the years variety and the bonding variety, to achieve yet again.

It's something that would be easier to do if Negan wasn't so distracted by the fucking perfection on bowed legs that is his boyfriend.

He's also more than sure that Rick's family wants nothing more than to see him for the new year, considering they didn't get to see him during Christmas, and who is he to deny them that? Especially when he knows said family is not exactly fond of him.

Maybe it's time he tries getting on their good side.

That's why he suggests it to Rick one morning when they're in bed- _it_ being the boy going back home- even though it takes a whole lot of willpower to not just let it be and keep Rick by his side.

At first, Rick seems almost a little hurt at the suggestion, face slumping like that of a kicked puppy and Negan gets it, he really does:

They've been apart for so long, and have just now spent the last month together sharing a cramped studio apartment, waking up so close to one another even if they weren't in the same bed and going to sleep together in that same way, spending the majority of their day in one another's proximity, even if things were tense and awkward or light and flirty or if one of them was going on a date with another man.

They've gotten so used to each other again, and that could be a good thing and a bad thing.

“Are you- are you sure you're okay? By yourself?” Rick asks looking at the man pressed into his side, tip toeing around the answer he knows Negan wants.

“I'm twenty fucking nine, of course I’ll be fine. Or at least I should be."

At the mention of twenty nine, Rick remembers, “But your birthday! I wanna be here for your birthday.”

“I'll see you by then,” Negan reassures, “I'll meet you back home.”

Rick knows where home is: together, somewhere in Austin- wherever is good.

“Okay,” Rick says after a moment of thought, nodding his head full of understanding, “Alright… you're right. It's probably better that we… have some space from each other. To be with our families.”

His words are sincere, despite the slight undertone of disappointment.

It's for the better, Rick knows, and Negan knows it, too.

-

Negan drives Rick to the airport a little too early in the morning- so early that Rick doesn't even notice until he parks suspiciously far away from all the other cars and the goddamn airport altogether.

Rick cracks an eye open, looking through a tired and squinted gaze at the pink sunrise, melting down into orange and yellow, then to the parking lot around them, then to Negan- a question posed in his eyes.

“Wha’ are we doin’ here s’ early?” Rick asks, voice slurred from sleep.

Negan looks over at the boy, who's bathed in a warm sunlight that highlights the unruliness of his brown curls- each one a tiny ringlet of a halo, sparkling and golden. His blue eyes are pale with the winter morning, swollen from being closed for so long, and as curious as a little kid, indignant like one too.

It's gonna be hard to not be able to see that face first thing in the morning when he wakes up, but he did it for half a decade- sure he developed a nasty drug habit, but he did it nonetheless- so he figures he can do it for a mere two weeks and still keep sane.

“Just wanted to say goodbye,” Negan answers, leaning over to plant a quick kiss on Rick's mouth, pulling away to see how the boy has woken up just that bit more, his cheeks gaining a faint flush that can't be blamed on the cold.

He presses their lips together again, and Rick responds this time, having gained his senses finally as he twines his fingers into the dark strands of Negan's silky hair, licking a slick line along the man's bottom lip.

Negan lets out a pleasant hum, his mouth stretching into a grin that lessens the kiss as he lets out a happy chuckle.

“What?” Rick says against his lips, smiling now too, “Why are you laughin?”

“I'm not,” Negan says, even as he laughs, and Rick presses another kiss against his tight grin before Negan continues, confessing, “I love you.” His voice is sap and it sticks, right down to Rick's bones.

“I love you, too,” Rick says sweetly, before he adds, “Gonna miss you.. Now kiss me right. I _know_ why you brought me here so early.”

“Oh do you?” Negan moves in closer, kissing down Rick's jaw and further down his neck, then right back up, joining their lips once again as his hand rubs up the softened black denim that dresses Rick's thigh, meeting the warmth sitting right in the center.

Rick gasps lightly and Negan slips his tongue between his parted mouth, rubbing him through his jeans as he does, tilting his head further to deepen the kiss, inducing the sinful slide of their tongues and the slight ache of labored jaws.

Negan pulls away when his chest feels like it’s about to explode, but wastes no time burying his face in the crook of Rick’s neck, softly kissing the junction that meets his shoulder as his hands grip at Rick’s sides, fondling the thick fabric of the boy’s sweater.

Rick gets a hand around the nape of Negan’s neck as he endures the man’s affections, his breath hitching in his throat here and there, Adam’s apple bobbing. 

“Mark me,” Rick says lightly, and Negan can feel the slight murmur of vibration that emits, “I want you to mark me up. Gimme somethin’ to look at and think of you.”

Negan removes himself from Rick just to look up at him, a heady smirk reading over every inch of his face, then as quick as he’s come up, he’s back to where he’d just been.

“I like that, baby,” he says, intensifying his actions and sucking sharply at the soft, impressionable skin of Rick’s pale neck. He can already see it: the lovely contrast of something so stark plum against the whiteness of his skin, blooming like violent flowers, “Want them on your neck? You want me to get you all nice and stamped up with my mouth, baby?”

Rick’s mouth is slightly open, the soft split of his lips and wide pupils of his eyes reading _yesyesyes_ , until something seems to dawn on him and he says, “Wait no, not on my neck. My parents might see. Go lower, anywhere you want.”

Negan nods, a wolfish grin erupting as he thinks of what he has to work with. He can already see in his head exactly what he wants to do.

“Backseat?” Negan suggests, nodding his head towards it.

Rick looks around at the parking lot and how it’s losing its vacancy as the minutes tick on, how they’re losing their privacy as those minutes pass.

Regardless, he makes his way to the back, his cock making the decision for him.

“Turn on the heater.”

Negan smirks, saying, “You got it, darlin’,” and joining Rick in the backseat after he’s followed his command.

And then things proceed- Rick on his back, and Negan between his legs- cramped, but not a problem; or at least not a big enough problem for them to care.

Negan pulls Rick's sweater down his chest, stretching the collar in the process, but Rick can't find it in him to be upset, not when Negan's sucking a line along his collarbone.

Not when he's biting, nibbling, licking, and inflicting just enough pain to make Rick's skin flush red, to make Rick's hands wander, sneaking into the back pockets of Negan's tight jeans, squeezing the man's ass at varying degrees of harshness, depending on just how hard the man sucks on his neck, depending on just how shocked Rick is in tandem.

Their cocks grow heavy and full against the denim they both wear, begging for release, and Rick uses his hold on Negan's ass to grind their hips together, seeking friction despite the heavy layers between them.

It's not much but it's enough: Rick groans and Negan whimpers, the latter’s lips going lax on his boyfriend's neck.

When he pulls back, he already sees the blushing promise of bruises to be bloomed, and he figures his work in that area is done and goes to give attention someplace else.

He rucks the boys shirt up and runs a cold hand over Rick’s belly, watching as his core pinches and tightens under his hand.

“Jesus, you're freezing,” Rick hisses, just as he goes to cover Negan's hands with his own, warmth seeping through from his skin to Negan's.

Negan smirks, soft and dreamy with a hint of something sharp, “I think you're hot enough for the both of us, don't you?”

Rick laughs, head tilting back with it, his cheeks red and bashful, “Oh, please,” he murmurs with amuse.

Negan laughs too, but says, very much serious, “I love every inch of you,” his voice low and sated, pressing a kiss to Rick's sternum, “Every what- five foot nine inches of you?”

Rick huffs indignantly, “That's five foot _eleven_  inches for you.”

Negan sucks a path towards his nipple, stopping just beside it and lavishing the skin there.

“Bullshit. Maybe with your boots on, cowboy.”

“Shut up,” Rick murmurs, laced with a moan, as his hands grab a hold of Negan's head, “Do me a favor and put that mouth to better use.”

“I will,” Negan says, and he does, _after_ he’s finished marking up Rick’s chest and stomach.

He pulls Rick’s jeans and boxers down to his ankles, watches as the boy’s hard cock springs up against his lower belly. It takes some willpower, but Negan manages to overlook that part of him for a moment. It's really not that hard to do when every part of Rick is just as gorgeous as the next.

He spreads the boy's thighs further apart, his hands on each of Rick's knees, his eyes eating up the sight of all the beauty laid out before him.

“I’m so fucking lucky you let me put my mouth on you,” Negan says, kissing a trail from the side of his knee all the way down to crease of his inner thigh, sucking and licking and biting the tender skin near his groin with careful teeth.

Rick writhes beneath him, whining impatiently, trembling slightly with all his pent up nerve.

“Want these to still be here when I see you again,” Negan says, running a careful finger over the reddened spots, laden with potential, that color Rick’s pale skin, “Want you to look at them when you get lonely, and remember me.”

Rick’s dick twitches with interest, impatient and flushed a livid red.

He’s already leaking shiny down the tip, and Negan gathers the wetness on his thumb just before sucking the digit into his mouth.

Rick’s cock gives another twitch, jumping slightly in its wake, as the boy watches Negan’s tongue work over his thumb.

“You taste like honey,” Negan smirks, “and dick.”

Immediately, Rick rolls his eyes- and they just end up farther back in his head as Negan’s hot mouth swallows his length, burying his nose in the curls dressing Rick's groin, catching Rick off guard.

“You always gotta do that?” Rick asks, his voice a strained hiss, “Catch me by surprise?”

Negan hums out an, “Mhm,” around his cock, and Rick feels his head fall back onto the armrest of the door.

He lets himself enjoy it, lets himself gather the feeling of Negan’s hands rubbing at his thighs and his ass- careful over the beard burn from their last session of fun.

Rick’s hands come up to his own chest, rolling his fingers over one of his nipples, while the other hand guides Negan’s bobbing motions.

He’s gonna miss getting his dick sucked regularly. Sure it's only been a regular thing for about a week, but still.

Apparently, Negan is going to miss sucking Rick’s dick regularly as well because then the sound of an artificial camera shutter meets Rick’s ears, and his eyes go flying open to the sight of Negan taking some risque blow job selfies.

“What are you doing?” Rick asks, more entertained than anything as he takes in the scene before him.

Negan pulls off of Rick’s cock with a pop, saying, “What does it look like I’m doing? I’m taking pictures of me with your dick. It’s a real fucking kodak moment, something I’d love to look back on in the future.”

Rick watches- maybe with a little more fondness than necessary- as Negan poses with his cock: taking one as he kisses the head, one with just the tip in his mouth, and one with it held up like a trophy near his grinning face.

Then he flips the camera onto Rick, snapping a quick photo before the boy can protest and then pocketing his phone quickly after, quickly getting back to business.  

“Why the surprise?” Negan asks, regarding the look on his boyfriend’s face, pumping Rick’s cock as he speaks so nonchalantly, “It ain’t the first time… Still have the old ones on my phone. And all those dirty polaroids.”

Rick smiles, and it's sinister around the edges- sweet everywhere else.

“I do, too,” he confesses, breath hitching in his throat as Negan's thumb grazes just beneath the head, “Got a lot of polaroids. Hid em in the- _ah! Ohh-_ the Carole King record.”

Rick thinks back on their sexy photoshoots near the end of their relationship. They’d taken those pictures, thinking maybe if the Cavern worked out and The Saviors made it big and Negan had to go away without Rick, they would both have something that reminded them of one another when the going got rough.

Things did work out, but Rick wasn’t there for that, didn’t know much about that.

And the going did get pretty rough, too.

It got rough for about five years.

Now it's only two weeks, and although it's a much shorter separation, it's different this time because they’re still together.

“Gonna miss you,” Rick says truthfully, words strained as all his muscles pull taut, heat pooling in his stomach.

“You’re gonna call me,” Negan says, hand pumping faster to bring Rick over the edge, “and text me… and _sext_ me- or cyber or whatever the fuck. Everything we never got to do five years ago. Everything we should've done, that's what we’re gonna do. Together.”

Rick nods frantically, his words lost somewhere else as he looks up into Negan’s eyes. All it takes is one strong look, and Rick is coming with a string of broken moans.

Negan strokes him through it, shushing Rick’s woes with the blanket of his mouth, swallowing every wrecked sound and kissing him full of ease.

“We’ll be alright,” Negan says a moment later, when Rick’s breathing has evened out, his voice gentle and assuring as it speaks to the boy’s innermost fears, “You and me, we know better now. Two weeks; we’ll be fine.”

Rick nods again, boring into Negan’s warm eyes. There’s something about them that encompasses him fully, something tangible that flows out of him and inside Rick, coursing throug his body.

“I love you,” Negan says, “so much.”

Rick shudders at the gentle fingers caressing the tender skin of his kiss-bruised inner thighs.

“I love you, too,” Rick says, cupping the man’s stubbly cheek, “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. Wouldn’t be where I am now without you.”

Negan smiles down at him and it’s watery and full of gleam. He plants a kiss on Rick’s mouth.

“I think you would’ve,” Negan smiles, “Not in the same context, but I’d like to think you would’ve come to your senses one way or another, with or without me. But I’m glad you happened to me, too. So fucking glad.”

-

Back at home, things are pretty boring for Rick.

But it’s that lucky boring; that _I don't have to worry about anything_ boring, that kind of boring where you spend all of your time trying to figure out what to do with your time.

He texts Negan a lot, calls him, skypes him- all that good stuff. But whenever he isn’t talking to Negan, he feels lonely, and unreasonably so.

He’s got his friends and family all around him, happy to take up some of his time, but he’s too preoccupied with Negan and his fear of their relationship collapsing if they don’t spend each and every moment talking to each other to take up any of their unvoiced offers.

He hadn’t noticed he’d been isolating himself until Rosita tells him something about it.

It’s the afternoon of New Years Eve, not even three days since he left Washington, and he’s sitting in his living room, watching TV, or really watching his phone as he pretends to watch TV.

Negan hasn’t texted him back. It'sbeen ten minutes and he hasn’t texted Rick back and the boy is jittery with nerves and worry, wondering if he had said something wrong, wondering what Negan was doing that was so important he couldn’t check his damn phone.

His thoughts are interrupted by the abrupt opening of his front door, and he jumps in his seat, his phone flying far on the floor as he curses aloud.

“I knew it,” Rosita says, face set in that stonelike disapproval, “I knew once you got back with that bitch that you'd go right the fuck back to being up his ass.”

“How'd you even know I was..?” Rick shakes his head, starts over, “Have you ever heard of knocking??”

She nods over at the windows, “Your fucking blinds are open, _pendejo_ , and have you _gringos_ ever heard of locking your damn doors?”

Rick purses his lips, lets out a large sigh, and says nothing despite Rosita’s strong gaze burning holes in his back as he gets up to grab his phone.

He presses the home button, sees he has no new texts, and sighs again.

“So that’s it?” Rosita continues, “You just come home and don’t even bother to say hi to me or Abuelita? Or Tara and Noah?”

“I knew I was going to be seeing you all tonight,” Rick says, trying not to let his guilt touch him, “I was just waiting for tonight.”

Rosita’s not having it, however.

“Bullshit,” She says, “ _Pura mierda_ \- I fucking knew it. I knew you’d just forget about everything that happened here. You’d go to Austin and get back with Negan and forget about _home_ , about who helped you when that- when that _junkie_ fucked you over.”

Rick grits his teeth, looks anywhere but at her, “He’s _clean_.”

“I don’t care about him,” she says, “I care about you. That’s why I came and checked up on you everyday the first few months you came back home, that’s why I forced you to shower when you didn’t want to, and that’s why I let you smoke _my_ weed. I was there for you when _he_ fucked you over- so was Tara, so was Noah, and so was your mom who I bet has only seen your face once since you came home. Don’t forget that. Don’t forget about _us_.”

Her voice is full of grit as she says that last word, Rick has to turn and look at her. But as his gaze lands upon her, it doesn’t meet her face, but her back as she walks out the front door without another word being said between them.

Rick sucks in a sharp breath, letting his head hang over his lap, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers.

He has been distant, hasn’t he?

His phone feels like a weight in his pocket now, so he takes it out.

He stares down at his lockscreen- still no new texts, but now Rick finally notices the photo of him and Tara and Noah on his trampoline, taken by Rosita in the backyard just a few feet away from where he is right now.

Rick has had that picture as his lockscreen for so long that it’s lost his eye and has just become a background, full of summery color and bodily shapes.

They're the people who helped him the most when he felt lonely, when he felt insecure, when he just wanted to talk about his miseries and have someone listen, and yet, he turned them away the second Negan came into his life again- now he sees that.

From the second they showed up, just minutes after Negan at his apartment door, up until now, he neglected them and his mother and Rosita.

The thought upsets him enough to bring him near tears, and he goes to text Noah.

 _I’m coming over_ , he says and then he’s tossing his phone aside, quickly grabbing his jacket off the hanger by the door and running outside towards his bike, lying rusty and dormant on the ground.

He hops on and begins the journey to Noah’s house all the way on the other side of town, riding with his ass off the seat, pedaling deep and heavy as he travels uphill.

Back in the summer, in his second and third year back home, Noah and Rick had this ongoing competition seeing who could bike to whose house the fastest despite all obstacles- pedestrians, potholes, highways, and all.

Rick went to Noah’s a lot in those two years and Noah went to Rick’s a lot, too.

Overall, the best time was ten minutes and twelve seconds and the record was in Noah’s name.

Rick got pretty close a few times, his personal best being ten minutes and twenty two seconds- but Noah reigned champion and the boy gave all the praise to his self proclaimed, foolproof strategy: always wear fluorescent vests so people see you coming when you're biking at the speed of light, and always bike at three forty-five on Sundays- a dead, tranquil time in the small town they resided in.

Whenever both Noah and Rick were off at that time on that day, Noah was biking to Rick’s house, not a doubt about it.

Today is a Sunday- Rick’s not sure what time, but the sun is still shining, and the cars are scant on the road and the air is still as nothing zips right through it.

Well, nothing but Rick, cutting through the thick, cold atmosphere, breathing it all in in giant heaves as his body re oxygenates itself, as his muscles cry out.

He hasn’t biked in so long, and with the calm and quiet, it feels like he’s the only man in the world.

When he reaches Noah’s yard, he hops of his bike, throwing it carelessly on the ground before running up to the door of his house, and knocking frantically.

He’s a little surprised when Tara answers, holding her phone in her hand, pressing the stop button on her timer before she looks up, saying, “ _Holy crap!_ Noah, come here! Nine minutes and _fifty two seconds!_ ”

Noah runs over, his steps sounding heavy and dramatic against the hardwood floor he bounds upon.

“ _BRO!”_ he bellows, grabbing Rick by the shoulders and shaking him slightly, eyes wide and ecstatic as he says, “ _NO. FUCKING. WAY!”_ He punctuates each word with a thrashing jump, and Rick is taken back for a second.

“You beat my time, you bitch!” Noah says, no malice in his words, just excitement as he moves away from Rick, taking in his unreadable form, “Damn, aren’t you gonna say something?!”

Rick is still catching his breath, but that’s not the reason he can’t speak.

Eventually, he manages to gather himself, and he says, most definitely killing the mood:

“I’m- I’m sorry. I put you guys on the backburner, I put everyone on the backburner.. just because Negan came back into my life and- and I didn’t see it then, but I see it now, and I’m so sorry. You guys are my- my _best friends_ ,” his voice breaks off as he says those last words, but he continues, “you’re the people who helped me the most when I needed it, who made me feel normal and understood, and I’m _sorry_.”

There’s a moment of silence where Noah and Tara look down at their feet, then up at each other, then over at Rick- a wordless ordeal.

Tara shrugs, “You thought he was dead. We get it, dude.”

Noah nods, serious as he so rarely is while he says, “We saw how you were without him, how the breakup affected you. He means a lot to you. We got to have a lot of your time for a long ass time, figured he deserved some, too... Even though it woulda been nice to get to know the dude, find out if he’s an asshole or not.”

Rick shakes his head.

He doesn’t deserve this, he thinks, this unconditional love, this support, this understanding.

“That doesn’t make what I did okay-”

“It doesn’t,” Tara agrees easily, “but like I said, we get it. No one’s perfect, and I can’t say I wouldn’t have done the same thing if I’d been in your shoes.” She offers him a reassuring smile, “It’s cool. You’re here now.”

“True,” Noah agrees, “We’re cool... It’s Rosita you’re gonna have trouble with.”

“Oh yeah,” Tara nods, “Good luck with that.”

Rick laughs, his tension melting off his skin bit by bit.

“You guys…” he says, shaking his head again, this time in disbelief, “I love you guys.”

Tara pulls him into a hug and Noah grins, “I’d say I love you back, but you beat my damn time so you’re a bitch to me.”

Rick and Tara pull apart and Rick looks at Noah with a challenge laden in his eyes, “Rematch?”

-

There’s a part of Negan that knows its not good to rely on Rick so much, and there’s also a part of him that knows it’s _definitely_ not good to withdraw himself from the boy if he wants their relationship to work and be fair.

He knows that there’s a balance to it at all, that the balance results in a wonderful combination of feeling magnified and mountainous when you’re with that someone and still being able to be yourself, to have your own identity as just one person, and still feel those loving feelings left in you when you’re on your own.

Negan’s never been a well balanced man, so this whole ideal is a lot easier said than done.

He tries to cut himself some slack, too, because after all, this is his and Rick’s first time being apart for a decent block of time while still being together- but he also wants to get it right, to set the bar, to make it easier to be independent in the future.

After the first few days go by, and Negan and Rick are still attached at the hip, only this time electronically, it raises a flag.

Negan knows- he knows, he knows. Just like he knew when he was drawing away from Rick after the cavern, just like he knew Rick would leave him, just like he knew The Savior's first album would suck, just how he knew he had to befriend Alpha, just how he knew he had to get off drugs, just how he had to get into rehab.

Negan knows he needs to space himself- and in a good way, in a healthy way. He needs to spend time with his mother, with _himself_.

He just doesn’t really know how. Or if he has the strength to do it, the strength to be vulnerable again with his mother, the bravery to be left alone with his own thoughts.

When he sets his phone down and goes downstairs for a snack, he hadn’t expected to be gone for so long, to leave Rick unanswered.

But, in retrospect, maybe it was for the better.

His mouth is dry, his fridge is stocked full, and it’s New Year’s Eve.

His mother is prepping food and making desserts for tonight’s party, working in a chaotic but organized kitchen all on her own- as she prefers.

Negan grabs a juice box from the fridge, stabbing the small straw through the foil film and sucking the box dry in one go.

“You don’t want a beer? Some wine?” Negan’s mother smirks down into the mixing bowl beneath her nose, “Maybe steal from your Dad’s liquor cabinet like the good old days?”

Negan huffs a laugh, trashing his crumpled juice box.

“No, I’m good,” he says, “I don’t really… drink…Well, not anymore.”

She steals a glance at her son, “Really? Was that- is that- Did that start when you…” she trails off, abandoning her bowl to give Negan her full attention.

He nods, knowing her question, “Yeah. It started when I checked into rehab. Apparently, I’m a very obsessive person, susceptible to addiction. Who woulda known, am I right?”

His mom smiles and although it's a touch weary, it's not as weary as it could be. “Well I coulda told you that,” she quips.

Negan huffs another laugh, but this time it's not humored, just pensive. He can’t help but think that yeah, maybe she could have, years ago. Maybe she could’ve warned him.

He tries not to dwell on it.

The woman doesn’t return to her mixing bowl and whatever concoction lies in it, but instead studies her son, sharing the same pensive look Negan is wearing.

“Heard you bought a Les Paul,” she says, “You brought it with you?”

“Yeah. I did.”

She nods.

“You were growing,” she says, speaking in retrospect, lips pursed with regret, “and we tried to stop you.”

Negan knows what she’s talking about.

“It was something that came so natural to you, something that was becoming such a part of you and we tried to _stifle_ that,” she shakes her head, brow pinching with distress, “I’ll never forgive myself for that. Maybe you have already, or maybe you’re starting to, but I won’t… I won’t. I’m just glad you didn’t listen to us.” There’s another break of quiet, and then she laughs, “That’s a first, right? A mother being happy her child didn’t listen to her? ..Insanity.”

Negan smiles.

“Maybe- deep down- I’m glad you told me not to be a rockstar,” he entertains, “Only made me wanna shred some more.”

She laughs, sudden and bright, like a fresh beam of sunlight unsheathed by a running cloud, and then she makes her way towards her son, pulling him into a deep hug.

Negan hugs her back.

When they pull away, she smooths a hand through her son’s hair, pushing it from his face, taking him in fully: her masterpiece.

“You’re the best thing I ever made,” she says, moving her hands to cup his face, “Your Dad and I did good.”

Negan grimaces, “Ew.”

She laughs again, pulling away completely, saying, “Why don’t you grab that guitar and come back downstairs? Play me some songs. I’ll sing, like that girl in your band- what’s her name?”

“Beth?"

“Yes, her! I want to meet her, you know. I better get to meet her. Reminds me of me, that firecracker.”

Negan grins, trying to imagine the two together, “I'll try my best to make that happen,” he says, and then he goes up to his room for his guitar.

That's when he notices his phone again, and remembers he'd been texting Rick.

He sees a text from the boy, sent over ten minutes ago. Quickly, he replies, tacking on an apology and a heads up that he won't be replying as often.

He's left with a slight dread in his gut, an unreasonable fear that Rick will be pissed or annoyed- or even worse, sad or upset- but then he remembers the reason Rick went back home was so they could spend some time apart, and then he doesn't feel so guilty when he spends his evening jamming with his mom and then goes well into the night hanging out with his relatives once they all arrive at his house.

It's an odd feeling: feeling so content and entertained without Rick being around.

Odd but good.

He does think about Rick.

He wonders what he's doing, if he's having fun, if he's with his friends and family- but he tells himself he can just ask later, that he'll talk to the boy in due time and find out soon and then he feels okay.

-

Noah doesn’t beat Rick’s time, but he doesn’t seem to mind. No one seems to be thinking about it, really.

After Rick had suggested a rematch, the three of them hopped on their bikes- Rick and Noah on their own and Tara on one of Noah’s spares, and headed on down the road.

Initially, they did try to beat the time together, but then their speed was too much for Tara’s rickety lemon of a bike and her chains fell off, so they had to stop and help her fix it.

Though Noah and Rick have both been riding bikes for a large part of their lives, they really don't know much about the anatomy of one, so it takes them a while to get the chain stuck back in place again.

Tara puts on some music while they work and it keeps on playing when they get moving again.

The town is still quiet and barren, all the stores closed for the holiday, all the people at home with their families and their friends.

Together the three of them cross the highways with ease, taking up the whole road as they bike side by side, cruising for enjoyment this time, taking in the serenity and the ease.

The cold nips at their skin but it hardly bothers them, and they grin with chapped lips that sting so sweet.

They're almost at Rick's house when Tara takes a detour.

“Hey!” Noah calls, he and Rick skidding to a stop “Where the hell are you goin?!”

“To pick up Rosita!” Tara answers simply, not even looking back.

“Are you for real?” Noah groans, “Look, I need some damn chapstick, I don't have time to carpool!”

“Yeah! And she's pissed at me!” Rick adds, he and Noah watching as she keeps biking without another word to spare.

The two boys sigh, sharing a look before they give in and work to catch up to their friend, the music coming from her pocket becoming clearer and clearer the closer they get.

Rick and Noah wait patiently outside Abby’s house as Tara goes to retrieve her girlfriend.

“We could just go to your house already, meet them there,” Noah suggests, the cold catching up to them as they wait idly.

“No,” Rick says, staring at the door of the now lilac colored house. He remembers when he and Rosita painted this house together, just before he left to Austin. He knows he could just go into the house- he practically lived there the majority of his childhood, after all- but he knows Rosita wouldn’t like that. “Lets just wait for them.”

Noah takes in a breath, “Well, alright.”

Just a couple seconds later, Rick hears the sounds of Rosita’s voice, muffled through the thin walls of the house as she yells,  “I don’t wanna go! No, why doesn’t _he_ ask me?”

“Because _I_ want you to go,” he hears faintly from Tara, and Noah and Rick stand there awkwardly, pretending they can’t hear any of it.

“Nice flowers,” Noah says conversationally, clearing his throat and nodding towards the bushel of roses dressing the fronts of the house, “You know our town is known for being able to maintain a garden even in the winter? They bloom better in the winter, actually. Better than in the summer.”

Rick looks over at Noah, blinks, and blinks some more.

A few minutes of yelling they try to tune out, and Noah spewing information about roses and chlorophyll, Tara finally returns from the house, a petulant Rosita by her side.

Tara gets on her bike and Noah and Rick follow, watching the girls carefully.

Rosita stands with her arms crossed over her chest, standing beside her girlfriend who sits on her bike, but looking off to the side indignantly.

“Well?” Tara says, gesturing towards her handlebars as she looks at her stubborn girlfriend.

Rosita huffs a loud breath, but gives in after a while, settling in the dip of Tara’s handlebars, mumbling, “If I fall, I’m gonna kick your ass.”

Rick figures it must be hard to stay mad at someone when they’re riding on the handlebars of your bike, because Tara starts laughing, saying, “No, you won’t,” with a teasing lilt.

They have no clue where they’re going, but they don’t go back to Rick’s house- they take advantage of the empty town yet again, going everywhere and biking with their guard down, listening to music and joking and laughing, the tension between all who carried it slipping away even if only for that moment in time.

Music is still playing from Tara’s phone, though it’d been ignored for most of the ride.

But when things get quiet, Rick hears it and so do the rest of them.

He’s never heard the song that's playing, but apparently all his friends have, because they sing along from start to finish, hollering the lyrics like madmen.

Rick just listens and watches, full of interest and amuse.

 _Watching the garden grow,_ _  
_

_happy, happy days_ _  
_

_Got egg yolk on my bed, Chinese food on the way_ _  
_

_Watching the garden grow,  
_

_straight into the sky_ _  
_

_Got a candle by my window, it keeps me warm at night_ _  
_

_Spending time together_ _  
_

_watch out, don't let it get you down_ _  
_

_Nothing is forever_ _  
_

_that's right, but don't let it get you down_ _  
_

_And I'm sitting in the back of a limousine,_ _  
_

_just going to a show_ _  
_

_Wishing you were here right next to me_ _  
_

_but you already know_ _  
_

_That I'm the one who loves ya_ _  
_

_watch out, don't let it get you down_ _  
_

_And there will be no other_ _  
_

_that's right, but don't let it get you down._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all for reading!! I hope you enjoyed and as always, feedback and constructive criticism are more than welcome!  
> also, if you're interested, I posted a new fic called Ivy- go check it out if u wanna, leave me a comment if u thought it didnt suck, drop some kudos, tell your friends about it, tell your parents... your professors. i love yall. im tired its like 2am I have CLASS EARLY IN THE MORNING


	21. Baby

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is it yall... i changed my mind, no epilogue, so this really is it. i'll gush to yall in the end notes.  
> songs mentioned in this chapter:  
> 'Ballad of a Thin Man' by Bob Dylan  
> 'Little Wing' by Jimi Hendrix (..... again)  
> 'Baby' by Donnie and Joe Emerson..... (again)

The music is playing loud, loud, loud- running deep and heavy and flooding Rick's graceless bones with poise and confidence, making his skin hot and flustered, tinged red like roses and cherries and the juice from pomegranates.

_You've been with the professors and they've all liked your looks_

_With great lawyers you've discussed lepers and crooks_

_You've been through all of F.Scott Fitzgerald’s books_

_You're very well read_

_It's well known_

_But something is happening here and you don't know what it is_

_Do you, Mr. Jones?_

Bob Dylan really isn't known for making sexy music, but something about this song- the droning groan of the keys, the odd mystery of the organ that wraps itself around it, the subtle and wiry licks of the guitar- it makes him want to dance.

And not the party type of dance (well, depends on the kind of party you're going to), or the prom type of dance, but the _sexy_ kind of dance- the kind of dance you do for only one specific person for one specific reason.

And that's what's happening now, though he’s not exactly sure how things got here- perhaps it was a spur of the moment thing.

Rick was always one to lose inhibition once he was pumped full of lust, and Negan knew just how to unwind the boy.

He's on a Skype call with Negan, his laptop placed atop his bed, angled towards his near naked body as he stands before it, giving the man a good view of his stature.

The music plays, so he moves and he strips, carefully reading the tiny spurts of messages that show up beneath the picture of Negan's awe-struck, flushed face, until finally he's completely naked and bare.

_Ur fuckin gorgeous_

_SO hot_

_Wanna put my mouth on u baby_

_My lil cam boy.. goddammit ur so hot_

Rick laughs at that last one, stops his hips from swaying, and leans into the computer, typing out a message for his boyfriend.

 _Your turn,_ he says, _touch yourself for me_.

Negan looks up into the camera with a sly satisfaction, and Rick sees his hand disappear out of the camera view, hinting at some searching going on below the belt.

 _I wanna see,_ Rick adds and Negan only smirks further, tilting the screen down to his lap.

Rick sees his length peeking out of his jeans, sees Negan's strong hand moving up and down on himself.

Even with the quality of the webcam, Rick notices how glossy Negan's eyes are, how bitten and swollen his bottom lip is.

Almost instinctively, Rick's hand meets his dick and he lets out a whine that nearly cuts through the thick cloud of music around him.

He's moves closer and closer to the camera, giving Negan a closeup of the flushed, shiny head leaking out a bead of silky precum.

Negan's jaw drops just slightly, his hand working faster around his own cock, and Rick imagines sticking his dick in that pretty fucking mouth.

He presses into the slight, almost fully faded bruises on the inside of his thigh, trying to find the small sting of pain that would usually exude, then moves the hand higher up to his balls, fondling them softly.

Rick leaks further and though it drips onto his keyboard, the boy can't find an ounce of care for it.

But when his orgasm is a mere step away, the door swings open, all on behalf of Noah.

“Hey Rick, you want chocolate chip or blueberry panca- _AHHHHH!”_

Things go down South in a split second: Rick reaches for the sheets of his bed to cover himself, pulling his laptop onto the floor in the process, the force and suddenness of his actions sending him frantic to the floor, running into the record player and knocking it off its stand, bringing the music to a stop with a comical scratch of the needle slipping off the record.

All the while, Noah falls to the floor out of pure drama and shock, clutching his eyes and repeating a string of _ohmygodohmygodohmygod_ until he finally comes to some form of mind.

“Don’t you ever lock your door, you _fool?!!!_ Goddamn! You whip your dick out _on camera_ at _ten o’clock in the morning_ in a house full of people- _friends and family_ , _Rick!_ \- and you don’t think to lock the door of the room you’re whacking your willy in? How did you get into UT? Tell me, Rick!”

“Get out!’ Rick yells, blushing furiously, hiding his face in the floor of his room, “Chocolate chip, okay, now get out!”

“I can’t move, Rick, I’m paralyzed. I’m _in shock_ … I’ll never be the goddamn same now that I’ve seen your junk.”

Rick chucks a pillow in his direction, unknowingly smacking him straight in the face, “ _Get. Out._ ”

Noah hisses as he chucks the pillow back at him, but finally he gets to his feet, “Watch the face, penis boy!”

At full stature he sees Rick cowering on the floor, covering himself with a sheet- sees the record player rampaged on the ground and laughs.

“I’m telling your Mom,” Noah says and then he jets out of the room, closing the door behind him and bounding down the stairs.

“ _Noah!_ I’ll kick your-”

Rick gives up, letting out a pent up sigh. He’s probably joking anyways, just trying to get a rise out of him- or at least he hopes so.

It takes Rick a minute, but eventually he gets to his feet, grabbing his laptop.

He’s surprised to see Negan is still there, pressing his lips together like he’s trying not to laugh.

The man takes himself off mute and says, “You alright, babe?” His voice laced with giggles.

Rick narrows his eyes, “You enjoyed that, didn’t you?”

Negan snorts out a laugh, mocking Rick’s terrified tone as he says, “ _Chocolate chip, okay?!?”_

Rick flushes, but sets his laptop down again, going to find some clean clothes to put on.

“ _Ha ha ha_ ,” he deadpans, pulling on some boxer briefs, Negan watching as he does so.

“No, but I’m serious,” Negan continues, face glowing with fresh laughter, “Are you okay? You took a pretty hard fall.”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Rick grumbles, “Can't say the same for my dignity, but I think I’ll manage.”

“That’s the fuckin’ spirit, baby,” Negan smirks, softening as he watches Rick shrug on a Texas Longhorns sweatshirt.

The sight reminds him of Rick, freshly twenty- not even old enough to drink, so sweet and so inhibited and so stifled. It reminds Negan of himself: twenty five- the same age Rick is now- and alone, so alone, up until this modest college boy came into his life.

They’ve both come a long way since then. It’s been five years but it feels like nothing.

“Finish up later?” Negan asks, referring to the little scene Noah had walked in on.

Rick smiles sweetly, “Yeah. Of course.”

“Just say when and I’m there.” Negan can’t help but smile when Rick does.

“How’s your Mom?” Rick asks, just before he leaves, “Things still goin’ good between you two?”

“Yeah,” Negan says easily, “Really good. I was kind of scared that they wouldn’t. You know- that she was putting up a front while you were here, just to seem like a good Mom.”

Rick nods gently, “I know.”

And he does, because Negan had told him as much the night he had dropped Rick off at the airport.

Rick was so grateful he had. He’s also so grateful Negan’s fears were for naught.

“How’re _your_ parents?” Negan asks, voice tentative.

“My Mom’s doing good, she’s just grading a lot of assignments, reading a lot of essays- you know, teacher stuff. My Dad’s good, too. He doesn’t hassle me like he used to.”

Negan hadn’t been the only one to speak on his thoughts and his fears.

The first few nights back in Texas, Rick talked to Negan about the toughest times during his years back home, told him about all the pressure his Dad put him under, about the time where his Dad drunkenly confessed to Rick that he had wanted to be a poet.

He didn’t spare the gory details of how he too had been drunk that night, or how he’d seen the Rolling Stone cover and come to realize Negan had been on drugs, and thus had a breakdown. All of it was spilled from mouth to air, and once it was, Rick felt that much freer.

Negan listened and listened, and said some things, but never apologized because he didn’t have to. Rick was not looking for an apology.

He thought about Alpha, thought about telling Rick about her untimely death- but he didn’t. Some things he figured must be kept to oneself. No one would understand the bounty of what he and Alpha had endured, what they had been- not even Rick. Sometimes even Negan himself is still trying to figure it all out.

“Good,” Negan says, and he means it, “That’s really good, baby.”

Rick smiles and it’s beautiful, so beautiful.

Negan smiles back and for a moment things are silent, until a voice sounds.

“Rick!” Calls the boy's mother, and immediately the boy scrambles.

“I’ll see you later, baby!” Rick says quickly, and Negan follows his promise shortly with an “I’ll see you, too.”

Then Rick is rushing downstairs with a knot of anxiety in his stomach, wondering if Noah really did tell his Mom, because Dear fucking God that would be awkward as all hell if he did.

All he gets when he faces her is a stack of chocolate chip pancakes handed to him and a couple of smug looks from Tara and Noah.

“What took you so long, Rick?” Noah asks intentionally.

“Odd task at _hand?"_  Tara quips, and Noah stifles a laugh.

Rick just sighs, looking over at his Mom to see how close she is before he hisses, “Why doesn’t anyone ever knock in this damn house?”

“Don't worry, Rick,” Noah says around a mouthful of blueberry pancakes, “No judgement here; you missed your man, I woulda done the same. Besides, I only feel closer to you now. Our friendship was waiting for this milestone.”

Rick blinks, staring weirdly at Noah for a moment before he just shakes his head, taking fork and knife to his pancakes as he tries to shake off his discomfort.

“I don't have to see Rick drain the lizard in order for our friendship to grow,” Tara brags easily.

Noah eyes her with a sharp gaze, “It’s a bro thing, you know- two dudes, brotherhood- all that. You wouldn't get it… and you _do_ know drain your lizard is a euphemism for pissing, not jacking it, right?”

Tara shrugs, stabbing another forkful of her pancakes, “I feel like that saying is open for interpretation. You're still draining in both instances.”

“How about we stop talkin' about my dick? I like that idea,” Rick suggests.

“This ain't about you, penis boy, this is about the history of English terminology and the origin of draining the lizard.”

There's a brief pause as the three of them acknowledge the absurdity of Noah's words, and then they bust out laughing.

Rick nearly chokes on his food, and as he's hacking up a lung, tears of laughter and pain stinging his eyes, he manages to hiccup up the words, “I hate you guys,” out of his mouth.

-

The day goes on like normal:

He and Tara and Noah hang out with his mom, talking about benign stuff and joking around.

Rick's mom treats Tara and Noah as her own children just as much as she does Rick- but no one seems to mind.

Before the sun sets, the three friends hop on their bikes, retrieving Rosita from down the street and cruising around aimlessly, listening to music and cracking stupid jokes that wouldn't be funny if they weren't pumped full of adrenaline and endorphins and all that.

Once they get tired of riding around, the four of them return to Rick's house for snacks, which they ravish in no time.

Then dinner comes along, and after that they're all too languid to do more than lie on the couch in front of the TV  and watch whatever good movie happens to be on.

They're in the middle of watching Stand By Me when Rick falls asleep, and so does Noah, leaving Rosita and Tara the only ones conscious as they squeeze together on the loveseat.

When the doorbell rings, and the two girls bicker about who's going to be the one to unravel from the other and go answer the door, Tara ends up with things in her favor and Rosita goes to answer the door.

Rick wakes up when he hears Rosita yelling.

“Oh fuck no, _quitate ya, pendejo! ...Tu intiendes, cabron? Vales verga! ...Fuck off!”_

“Who's at the door?” Rick asks, taking in a sharp breath as he sits up, stretching his arms out.

Noah is still snoring away.

“I don't know,” Tara shrugs, unbothered by her girlfriends yelling as she watches the movie go by on the screen, the colors flashing fleetingly on her face, “Did you order a pizza?”

“No,” Rick answers, and when Rosita’s yelling continues, he gets up and walks over to the door.

His eyes nearly bulge out of his head when he sees a truly frightened Negan clutching a bouquet of lilies to his chest as Rosita scolds him bilingually.

 _“Rosita!”_ He yells, bringing her verbal assault to a stop.

She sucks her teeth indignantly, “ _Que quieres??"_

“Stop! He's not doing anything, for Gods sake.” Before the girl can say anything he turns to Negan, looking at him softly, trying not to let his excitement burst out of his bones as he says, “And what are you doing here? I wasn't supposed to see you for another day or two.”

“Thought I'd come by early and surprise you,” he says carefully, then spares a weary glance at Rosita as he adds, “I'm starting to wonder if that was a shitty idea on my part.”

“Yeah, it was,” Rosita remarks, which earns her a sharp glare from Rick.

“ _No_ , it wasn't.”

Rosita rolls her eyes, “Yeah, whatever. I'm going home.”

Before she can step foot over the threshold, Rick blocks her path.

“No, you aren't.”

“I'm not gonna be in the same house _he_ is in. So either he leaves or I do- and we both know who you'd pick to be the one that goes.”

“I want _both_ of you to stay,” Rick says firmly, “I'm not gonna pick. I don't have to, so don't make me.”

Rosita meets his gaze, seems to be searching for something in his eyes, in his skin.

Something like the truth.

Maybe she finds it, because then her stiff shoulders ease, and her jaw loosens before she says, “... I’m only staying because Tara's here and Stand By Me is her favorite movie.”

She spares Negan a sour glare and then returns to the living room, leaving Rick and Negan alone.

Rick steps onto the doorstep, closing the front door to give them both some privacy.

They lock eyes again and Rick can't help his excitement this time around, breaking into a tight grin and throwing himself into his boyfriend's arms.

Negan chuckles, lets him in easily, burying his nose into chestnut curls, taking in his scent like it's the only air he can breathe safely.

“Are those for me?” Rick asks when they pull away, nodding towards the flowers in Negan’s hand.

“No,” he says, almost apologetically, “They’re for your parents. If they were for you I would’ve gotten roses.”

Rick smiles getting on his tiptoes to plant a kiss on the man’s mouth.

“What are you doing here? I was supposed to meet you in Austin tomorrow.”

“I wanted to surprise you.”

“But your mom-”

“We’re okay. She went on a trip with her sister. Finally convinced her to have a little  fun and dropped her off at the airport. Then I decided to take a little trip of my own. I’m a Texas boy at heart, it fucking turns out.”

Rick looks over at his driveway, sees Negan’s van.

“You drove here?” He asks.

“Yeah.”

“After flying in from Washington?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you crazy??”

“I fucking used to shoot speedballs, Rick. I think you know that answer. Besides, the drive gave me some time to myself.”

“Couldn’t you wait a day? You have my spare key, you could’ve had some time for yourself at my apartment,” Rick reasons, before he studies Negan’s face, “You must be exhausted.”

“I could’ve waited a day, but this isn’t about seeing you,” Negan says, “I mean, yeah, of course I wanna fucking see you, like, the sooner the fucking better, but… this is- I just… this is about your parents.”

“My parents?” Rick questions.

“Yeah- and Rosita. I know they hate my fucking guts, and I don’t want them to, okay? Because they’re your parents and she's like your sister and they mean a lot to you and I don’t know about you, but I think we’re fucking endgame, okay? And I don’t want your parents and Rosita and maybe even your friends resenting you because of me.”

It takes Rick a moment to take that all in, and when he does, he still can’t fully process it.

“Negan,” he begins, “Baby… they don’t hate you. Rosita doesn't either, believe it or not. They just- they’re afraid, that’s all. They saw how you affected me, and they’re afraid it’s gonna happen again.”

Negan’s brow furrows.

Those five years apart can still be something that’s so hard to think about, let alone talk about. There are still some things Negan doesn’t know about Rick’s years alone, and vice versa. Maybe they’ll never get to know them either or maybe things will continue to unfold in stories and conversations as they spend the years together

It was their time to be spent alone; they can do what they wish with those years.

“Hey,” Rick says gently, urging Negan to look at him. When their eyes meet, he continues, “It _won’t_ happen again. Right?”

Negan nods, “Right.”

Rick smiles, hopeful and glittering.

“Okay,” he says, before he grabs Negan’s hand, “Now c’mon- my friends want to meet you.”

-

The night is eventful.

Tara and Noah are excited about finally, officially meeting the elusive man of rumor.

Rosita is bitter and stubborn.

Rick is optimistic.

Negan is nervous.

And Rick’s parents are asleep.

Things are a bit awkward at first, because though they all insist on finishing Stand By Me, all anyone can do while it's playing is gawk at the tall man in leather pressed into Rick’s side- especially Noah, who’s sitting right beside him.

During one of the commercials, Rosita and Tara go to make popcorn (really, Tara is just looking for an excuse to try and coax Rosita out of her hardened shell, in private), and Negan finally acknowledges the bug eyed boy.

“You’re Noah, right?”

Noah nods, jaw slightly hanging.

“Aren’t you gonna be in Rick and Glenn’s movie?”

Noah nods again, excitedly this time, jaw still hanging.

“I saw you on TV once,” Noah says, still with that awestruck look.

“That’s… cool, dude,” Negan says, unsure of what else he could say.

“So… you and Rick, like… bang?”

 _“Noah!”_ Rick hisses, and Negan snorts. “Could you stop acting so damn weird, Jesus Christ! And stop staring at him!”

“I can’t!” Noah says, “He’s gorgeous, Rick- _and_ talented! I think I might start wearing eyeliner now.. really makes the eyes pop, doesn't it?”

At least one of Rick’s friends seems to like him, Negan thinks, and by the time Tara and Rosita get back, Noah and Negan are immersed in conversation about eyeliner and Rick and Glenn’s movie- so much so that Rick can barely get a word in and Noah is offering already to recite lines for the man.

“I got the PDF on my phone!” Noah beams, “You wanna go, lets go. Tara’s been helping me practice my lines.”

Negan looks over at Rick to see if that’s okay, to which the boy only nods, happy to see Negan interacting with his friends.

Noah yells for Tara even though she’s less than a foot away from him and then the coffee table gets pushed aside and shit gets real.

After seeing Noah in his element, Negan truly understands why Rick had wanted him to have a role in the movie. He’s got this down on his luck kind of humor that fits the theme of the movie really well, and though Noah isn’t playing a major character, you can tell he still feels on top of the world about his contribution.

Everyone is laughing- even Rosita- as the scenes come to life and the night ages onwards; Tara breaks character so much, trying and failing to stifle giggles and snorts whenever Noah even does anything remotely funny.

Sometime she even laughs at the plain ridiculousness of her situation.

Rick makes them stop, however, when they get too close to reenacting certain scenes he does not want to be spoiled, and when they come near the end.

Its early in the morning when that happens, though, and everyone ends up sleeping over, piled up in Rick’s bed as well as his bedroom floor- never once thinking to separate into the guest room, or suggest the idea of going back to their rightful homes.  

They all go to sleep with no tensions flooding the air, and just before Rick shuts his eyes, he shares a look with Negan- a look that seems to say _Can you believe it?_

-

Rick startles awake in the morning to his Mom yelling his name from downstairs.

He startles even further when he notices he’s in the confines of familiar arms, and then he remembers last night, and suddenly his Mom’s calling for him settles dauntingly into his skin.

Regardless, he slips out of bed and makes his way downstairs to the kitchen, where he sees Noah and Tara and Rosita with his Mom and his Dad, looking at Rick expectantly.

“Ricky,” his Mom says, holding the bouquet of lilies, moving them into a vase, “Where's the boy?”

Rick glances over at his friends, standing behind his parents, looking absolutely smug and entertained as they await the boy’s demise.

“....Upstairs,” he says, eyes wide with his confrontation, “Sleeping.”

Rick’s father guffaws, “He slept in your room with you??”

“On the same bed. too!” Noah adds, and Rick shoots him a glare.

“We _all_ slept in the same room!” Rick argues, gesturing to his friends, “Nothing happened! ...Even if something did, I’m twenty five, for God’s sake, not sixteen.”

There's a moment of silence before Rick's mother speaks up, dangerously calm.

“You're right,” she says, though it doesn't sound or look like she believes that, “We just wanna… talk to the kid.”

Rick's eyes widen and his friends fill the room with incriminating _oooohs_.

“Don't y'all have someplace to be that ain't my house twenty four hours a day, seven days a week??” Rick's mom suggests to the twenty something year olds behind her, and immediately they all go quiet, trudging hesitantly into the living room.

Once they’ve all gone, her eyes are back on Rick.

“Bring him here, Ricky,” she says, face stern.

Rick feels his eyes skim from his mother and her sternness, then to his father and his impassive look that’s equally as intimidating.

“Go easy on him?” he says, looking between the both of them pleadingly, “Please? He’s been through a lot. _We’ve_ been through a lot together-”

“We know,” his parents say together, and _holy shit,_  if that doesn’t scare him even more.

But all he can do is race upstairs and retrieve the sleeping man.

Only when he goes upstairs, the man isn’t sleeping anymore; he’s up and moving, mussed and slumberly, looking through Rick’s things like a curious child.

The sight evicts all of the fluster his parents had evoked in him, replacing it with a gentle feeling- all fond and amused.

Negan has polaroids in his hands when he looks up and sees Rick.

“Hey baby,” he says, slightly unsure of whether or not he’s been caught with his hands inside the cookie jar.

“Hey,” Rick smiles, just before he gestures down to the photos, “You find somethin’ that caught your eye?”

Negan smirks, “I was thinking maybe these were the sexy ones, but I thought nah, there’s no fuckin’ way you’d leave these out in the open. Then I remembered you said you left ‘em in the Carole King record.” He studies the pictures in his hand carefully, and Rick moves in next to him to see, too.

It’s the same picture Tara had found herself snooping upon years ago, taken by Glenn. Then some others. Some of just Negan, some of Negan and Rick together, some of them together with friends.

“We were just the cutest shits in the fucking world, huh?” Negan says, then corrects himself, “ _are._ ”

“Yeah,” Rick agrees, adding, “Glenn’s pretty good with a camera, too, so that helps.”

Negan nods, “Fucker knows all my angles. I was his muse at some point in time, you know. I made him into the genius that he is.”

Rick rolls his eyes, “Yeah, sure.”

They go through a few more photos that Rick has studied through and through before, but seeing them now with Negan beside him, Rick notices their old apartment more than he usually would.

With the way the man lingers on some photos more than others, Rick thinks Negan does as well.

“Do you ever wanna go back there?” Rick asks quietly, looking up at his boyfriend inquisitively, “Just to see?”

Negan swallows, nods, “Yeah.. I mean, not to how we were, but… just back _there_ , in that apartment. Just to see.”

“Me too,” Rick breathes, and then he’s reaching up to plant a kiss on Negan’s cheek.

The sweet moment they share is then interrupted by the sound of Rick’s mom calling out for him yet again- then he remembers.

“My parents want to talk to you,” Rick informs, dreadfully.

Negan’s eyes nearly bulge out of his head.

-

It feels like he’s been called into the principal’s office with the way he’s sat in front of Rick’s parents.

But Negan has to admit, even sitting in the principal's office back in his glory days never had his palms sweating quite as much as this does.

“How ya guys been?” Negan asks nervously, trying to banish tension, “Been quite some fu- freakin’ time since we’ve seen each other, huh? I know we didn't exactly leave off on the right foot...”

All they do is blink at him.

“We’re not here to yell at you, Negan,” Rick’s Dad says.

“But we will if we have to,” Rick’s Mom tacks on.

When she sees how Negan stiffens, she adds, “We just need you to know how… scared we are.”

“Concerned,” Rick’s Dad nods.

“Yes, concerned,” Rick’s Mom agrees, “We know you love Rick... and we know that we don’t understand the half of what went down between the two of you- although Rick did inform me of most of the events-” she takes in a steadying breath, “What we’re trying to say is, we know we can’t keep Rick from pain. And though he is our son, we don’t want to keep him from pain, because that’s how you learn in life. That being said, we don’t hate you for what happened. We don’t blame you for it either.”

“I did for a while,” Rick’s Dad admits, “after watching Rick just… wallow around for a while. But then I realized, he wasn't wallowing- he was really just evolving, more like it. He grew… and he learned. He took something away from your time together, and I don’t know what it was and it's none of my business, but it was something good. So I’m grateful for that, that you helped him find his path. I have to thank you for that.”

Negan feels a smile meet his face, and it’s rooted in relief and pleasant surprise.

“Don’t thank me,” Negan says, “That was all him... I mean, I gave him the seeds or whatever, but he's the one who sowed 'em."

He regrets using the word seed in front of Rick's parents, but other than that, their talk goes pretty well.

-

When they’re getting ready to part ways- and Rick is getting sent off with hugs and promises from his friends and family that they will see him soon- Negan is surprised when Rosita is the first of Rick’s friends to come and bid him goodbye after Mr and Mrs Grimes.

She eyes him for a good while, but unlike yesterday, her gaze is not full of malice, but hesitance.

“I don’t like you… yet,” she states pensively, adding, “but I don’t hate you… anymore.”

Negan smirks happily, “I’ll take that,” he says, and pulls her into a hug before she can protest.

She shrieks when she doesn’t feel her feet on the ground, yelling out, “ _No me toques, pendejo!_ ”

Negan can hear the smile in her voice, though, and it’s a beacon of hope in his once nerve ridden soul.

He fistbumps Tara and Noah once he gets to them and they pull him into a collective hug, all good spirit and no judgement. Negan sees why Rick loves them so much.

Then they board Negan’s van, Rick in the driver’s seat and Negan in the passenger.

Things are peaceful and at ease, and they hold hands over the center console as they begin the long drive out of town.

All of the events of the day before finally seem to catch up to Negan, and as the smooth hum of the paved road whirs into his ears, accompanied by whatever plays on the radio, he drifts slowly to sleep.

Even when he's in the midst of his slumber, he knows it's the best sleep he's gotten in weeks, and when he wakes up, it’s because of Rick’s gentle hand shaking him awake.

“Rise and shine,” Rick says, watching as Negan takes in their surroundings: a gas station in a small, suburban town, “It’s your turn to drive.”

Negan hums in response, sitting up and stretching out before he hops out of the van, saying, “Guess I better fill ‘er up, huh, cowboy?”

His voice is scratchy with sleep and it makes Rick feel warm.

“Guess you better.”

With that, Negan heads inside the store, and Rick hops over to the passenger’s seat, awaiting the man’s return, silently hoping Negan will bring back some snacks even though he forgot to mention it.

As he’s waiting, he remembers the book he’d left in Negan’s van- the one he never got to finish-and he’s opening up the glove compartment to retrieve it, thinking that with the three hours of driving they still have under their belt, he can finally finish it.

He’s quickly skimming through the pages, trying to find where he left off, and when he does, there’s something slipped between the pages; something that has replaced his old bookmark.

 _To Rick_ , reads the back of an aged paper napkin.

He recognizes the handwriting as Negan’s, though a little frazzled, and curiously, he flips it to the other side, finding a note.

Some parts are hard to make out, because it's all smooshed together desperately, but Rick tries his hardest to make it all out:

_You are the intro to little wing_

_You are the sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted_

_I am the sour apple of your eye_

_I’m sour milk_

_I made you throw up_

_You’re my guy you’re my baby_

_I dream of you in pretty underwear_

_I dream of holding you in pretty underwear_

_I hope your dreams see day and meet the sun like the red balloons babies throw up to the sky_

_Go out as a moth with no sense of the light_

_Don’t let them use you_

When he’s read it, his brow is all furrowed up and all he can wonder is when the hell this number was written and why.

Negan comes back, plastic bag full of junk food and the tank now full of gas, hopping into the drivers seat and saying, “I wasn’t gonna fuckin’ get anything but then I said… you know what? Fuck it, and got some shit. You want sour gummy worms or peach rings?”

Negan already knows the answer is sour gummy worms, has the bag extended out towards Rick already, even, but still he has to ask. When he doesn’t feel Rick taking the bag from his hand, he finally looks up.

Then he sees the napkin with ink scrawled upon it and the book, and his easy look scrunches up, becoming puzzled.

“What’s that?” He asks.

“You tell me,” Rick says, “It says its for me- and it's in your handwriting.”

Negan takes the note from Rick’s offering hand, and Rick finally takes the gummy worms, tearing the package open as Negan examines the napkin.

He reads a few lines, and the memory resurfaces, face flushing and a slight shade of shame coloring over him.

“Yeah, its for you.”

Rick pops a worm into his mouth, “When did you write it?”

Negan sighs, tries to will the embarrassment away, “Long ass time ago. Maybe three of four years ago. I really can’t remember exactly when. Too much weed… and shrooms… and LSD.”

“LSD? Shrooms?”

“Yeah, I-” he chuckles, embarassed, “I wrote that when I was on a bad trip. Got some tabs from Alpha that were stronger than I was used to and I was freaking out. Thought I was gonna die because I kept on seeing this hot pink vulture with neon yellow stripes riding over my back, and I had convinced myself that I was a baby rabbit that was glow in the dark, so the vulture could see me even in the night. Then I just got really sad and accepted my fate, but I didn't wanna go out knowing you'd be left with jack shit, so I wrote you that... with my fucking amazing writing skills.”

Negan laughs again, mirthless, and just as Rick senses he’s going to crumple the napkin up in his fist, he reaches out to retrieve it.

“I’m keeping this,” he says, placing the napkin back between the pages of his books.

"Why?"

"Because, I like it. It's good."

Negan hmphs, "Whatever you say," but he's flattered.

He's happy Rick liked it, because even sober, he means the words- even if he doesn't really know what the words mean.

-

It was Rick’s turn to fall asleep once they continued on the second half of their trip home.

He awoke before Negan could tell him to, and at an impeccable time at that, because the second his eyes fluttered open, he caught sight of the parking lot; the parking lot of their _old_ apartment.

He sat up quickly, startling Negan as he looked around in confusion.

Vaguely, he wondered if maybe he was still asleep and dreaming of an old memory, but then Negan cursed, saying, “Dammit! You ruined the fucking surprise!”

Rick swats him in the face for yelling when he’s just woken up, but smiles still, asking, “What are we doin’ here?”

Negan gets out of the van, “You said you wanted to see, right?”

Rick guffaws, “People could live there now, Negan.”

“We’ll see,” he says, shutting his door and making his way towards the porch of their old apartment.

Rick sighs, but follows nonetheless, thinking there’s no way they can even get in- neither of them have a key.

He watches as Negan knocks, awaiting sounds that provide proof of life.

When the man hears nothing, he begins fiddling with the lock, and Rick watches in alarm as he manages to get it open.

“ _Negan!_ ” He hisses, looking around nervously.

“What? I lived here for eight fucking years, you think I don't know how to open this shitty door without a key? Besides, if the landlord sees me they won't say shit. They probably think I still fucking live here.”

Negan gestures for Rick to go in first, and Rick hesitates.

“After you, princess.”

Rick sighs, but goes in, and immediately he notices nothing looks the same.

But if he looks with different eyes he can see it all over again: he can see spring time air and summer time humidity, sweaty skin and scratched up guitars sitting in corners, sunlight blinding his sleepy eyes on too bright mornings in May and June, smiles so wide, the smell of marijuana, the taste of cheap beer, of orange juice and vodka. He can hear music, too; Jimi Hendrix and Led Zeppelin and The Beatles and Nirvana and Jeff Buckley and Bob Dylan and Janis Joplin and Amy Winehouse. He can hear Beth singing early in the morning with the birds, by herself or with The Saviors when they used to practice in here.

There are no colors now like before, but he can see them if he imagines.

No books on gaudy shelves and no second hand furniture.

No television, no red vinyl couches, no refrigerator with beer and tofu inside and tacky, nonsensical magnets on the outside.

Negan follows Rick's suit, closing the door behind him.

“Different,” Negan hmphs, “... Guess I thought we'd come back together and it would all look the same as it did years ago.”

Not even the air is the same anymore. (Probably because it's cold now; it's the winter time.)

But maybe that's good.

They walk past the kitchen and there's no circle table, they walk into Negan's room and it's empty save for a useless lamp.

Negan stands in the center of the room, and looks around like there might be something to find, like there is an X that marks the spot somewhere and gold lies beneath it.

He shakes his head, something small curving his lips in an almost smile.

Rick stands in the doorway, watching from the side; a wallflower.

“This room changed my whole damn life,” Negan says, humbled, looking up and around at the four walls and the ceiling above him with so much reverence, so much emotion, “ Changed everything.”

“Yeah,” Rick agrees softly, and he sees flashes of warm, loving mornings with legs entangled like vines and heads upon chests like a snooping ear pressed against the layers of a thin wall.

Newness and oldness all pressed into one vision. Half a decade ago, and now: the present.

It feels like another realm.

He fell in love in all the rooms of this apartment, but especially this one.

When they walk into Rick's old room, Negan feels a lump of emotion gather tight in his throat, choking him until he has to fight back tears.

To any oblivious person, this room looks exactly the same as the other and all the rest.

Negan notes the broken lamp he had smashed in a fit of sorrow years ago has now been replaced with another almost identical replica.

He shakes his head, overcome with many emotions, but mostly he's astounded.

How did he get so lucky?

Lucky enough to be in Austin the same time as Rick, to have found an amazing group of talented people he gets to call his band, to have found success doing what he loves, to have the humble earth have mercy on his soul and give him another chance at life.

He'll never know how, but he won't question it.

“Remember when you first played your guitar for me the night I moved in?”

Negan huffs a laugh through his nose, “How could I not? I was trying to sweep you off your fucking feet but I think it somehow worked the other way around. You looked so damn good I forgot about my expensive ass record and my expensive ass guitar and walked straight out of here without 'em… Embarrassing, but I think I played it off pretty fucking smoothly.”

Rick smiles at the memory, then says, on a much more serious note, “I knew you would make it... I don’t think I’ve ever told you, but I’m proud of you. Really proud.. You did it- even if things did go a little awry. You proved everyone wrong, and you proved me right. You made your dream come true."

Negan nods, thinks.

“I did, didn’t I? Just wish I hadn’t had my head so far up my ass so I could’ve actually enjoyed it. All I could see then was the terrible shit. And all the good shit was just numbing.”

“Maybe you can make that happen in your thirtieth year: get The Saviors back together, see the world again- now through different eyes; better ones.”

“Yeah,” Negan nearly whispers, then he remembers, “Speaking of thirty,” he pulls his phone from is pocket only half way, peeking at the time, “We’ve got about… ten minutes 'til.”

Rick grins, nearly teasing, “Ten minutes left of being twenty. How do you feel?”

“Tired,” Negan says, “Young. Content. In love... Horny.”

Rick snorts, snagging a kiss and hiding his face in Negan’s neck.

Then some silence follows, and it keeps following and following until it gets interrupted- not by the sounds of the Austin night bustling about, or the creaks of an old apartment, or one of their voices or anything like that, but by music: a very familiar tune.

Immediately their heads snap up to look at each other, wearing the same look of utter surprise, colored delightful and disbelieving.

“They still live in that apartment?” Rick questions, incredulous.

“I’m pretty sure,” Negan says.

Eager to see, the two go out on the porch, and find their answer in the form of two old lovers sat in plastic chairs on their porch, a stereo between their feet.

The couple spot Rick and Negan, and they wave hello with their hands that bear new wrinkles, their faces gregarious and full of peace that radiates onto those in the vicinity.

Rick and Negan wave back, a silent exchange, then they turn to look at one another- wearing the same googly eyes.

“Wanna dance?” Negan asks, a foolishly cheeky look on his face.

“I don’t see why not,” Rick says, even though there are people all around, able to see them, though most definitely wouldn't care.

Regardless, they fall into each other, not an inch of space between their bodies as they step into a simple sway, their stubbly cheeks pressed together as the music plays on, lulling

_Ooo, baby.._

Rick’s not sure of the time, but as the song begins to gently fade, he pulls away slightly, still swaying as he softly says, “Happy birthday.”

Two simple words, but he means them sincerely. Just a little over a month ago, he'd began to presume Negan dead, silently mourning him more  and more day in and day out.

In lieu of any words, Negan leans down, cupping Rick’s jaw with a soft hand and pulling him in for a lingering kiss.

They pull away, warmth flooding all around.

Then the song starts again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank u all for reading! I hope u enjoyed and as always, feedback and constructive criticism are more than welcome. <3333333  
> i love u guys so fucking much. if not for all of u, this never wouldve happened and this story means so much to me- its been so cathartic to write and ive experienced so much growth as I've written this- that i have to thank u guys with all my heart. thank u for reading, for commenting, for leaving kudos, for EVERYTHING. you all have instilled me with so much confidence and pride in myself and my work and im forever indebted.  
> if u have a favorite song, chapter, moment- favorite anything- from this series, comment and let me kno cuz im really curious to see what u guys have enjoyed the most from this whole series.  
> also, if you haven't, check out my new fic Ivy and tell me what you think. My next update for that fic may not be very soon as I celebrate the close of this fic, tho.


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